Shall Never See So Much
by Stoplight Delight
Summary: In the military academies of Amestris, Cadets Mustang and Hawkeye are trained to command. They are groomed and prepared for firefights, hand-to-hand combat and even torture. But there's one thing their schools cannot prepare them for: the reality of war.
1. Prologue

**Chapter 1: Prologue**

The landlady did not approve.

Each night when the young man in the shabby gabardine suit turned up at the door, she would scowl at him through dark, narrow eyes. With a wad of cheap snuff in her lip, she would usher him into the dank, narrow corridor that smelled of cabbage and unwashed linen. He would tip his battered cap and greet her courteously by name. She would snort disapprovingly at him and take the fistful of coins that he offered her, for the money that might have gone to pay for better lodgings was squandered to buy discretion.

Then the visitor would grip the banister tightly and trudge up the stairs, and the woman would suck her teeth as she muttered maledictions in her native Xingese. Yet she would pocket her nightly bribe, retreat into her musty parlour and, as was the agreement, turn a blind eye to the sinful goings-on above her – for what else would a man want with a sweet young girl whose rent he paid?

In the slope-roofed garret room under the eaves of the decaying tenement house, the young man took off his cap and unwound the wool muffler that was the only warm garment he wore. The room was tiny, heated by a cast-iron brazier. A narrow, dilapidated bed took up most of the floor-space. There was a rickety table and a chair in one corner, and in the other a tiny clothespress that exuded the camphorous stink of mothballs.

It was in this grim setting that the girl was waiting for him tonight as always, swathed in a shirt that had once belonged to her father. The man gave her a parcel of food: two cold chicken legs, a potato, twin slices of bread stuck together with a thick smearing of butter, and a cinnamon roll. The girl took the potato at once, setting the rest of the food on the windowsill where the winter drafts would keep it cool until morning. She sat down on the edge of the bed to eat the baked tuber, which gave the young man time to warm his hands, sharpen his pencil with a military-issue penknife, and take out his notebook.

They exchanged no pleasantries – the pale, dark-haired youth and the blonde slip of a girl. They knew their respective roles in this nightly drama. When both were ready the girl removed her shirt, curling one arm modestly over her small, developing breasts. The young man averted his eyes, for he was not here to stare at _that_ part of her body. For a moment, as always, the girl hesitated. Then she climbed onto the creaking bed, smoothing her skirt as she stretched out on her belly. Her bosom almost vanished into the sagging mattress, and she crossed ehr arms to pillow her head.

The young man drew the ragged wool coverlet over her, tucking it about her hips so that she would not grow too cold. Then he dragged the table towards the bed and sat down beside the girl. The waistband of her skirt was too high, obscuring the small of her back. Carefully, almost tenderly, the man undid the top two buttons, folding back the cloth only as far as was necessary. The girl shivered a little, not from cold, and the youth put a warm hand on her naked shoulder. The gesture was an unspoken apology. He did not like using her like this. He abhorred the necessity.

The girl said nothing, but a little of the tension ebbed from her body. She began to relax as the young man opened his notebook. The tenement was wired for electricity, but as they could not bear the added expense it was by candlelight he studied. His dark eye searched the familiar lines before him for something – anything – that might provide a clue. He took in every angle, every contour, the words and their position in relation to her vertebrae and her smooth shoulder-blades. The smallest detail might be important. The key to the enigma was here somewhere. He just had to find it.

Hours dragged by. The girl drifted into an uneasy slumber, the heater grew cold, and yet the young man worked. Tonight it was the shapes that he studied: the curl of the letters about the central array, the sleek sloping bodies of the serpents with their strangely textured scales.

When at last the purloined candle burned to a nub and fizzled out, the young man was forced to admit that this night, too, had been a failure. He lifted the blanket to cover the girl's back, taking care to keep his hands away from the places where the ink marred her fair skin. He could not leave her uncovered, and so this contact like the touching of her shoulder earlier was necessary, but he did not dare to risk touching the tattoo itself. It exuded an aura of danger and power that at once alarmed and exhilarated him. If only he could unravel its secrets...

Not tonight. He wrapped his muffler around his neck, donned his cap, and slipped from the room.

It was the black hour that preceded dawn. The streets were deserted in the bitter December cold. The youth strode quickly through both, chaffing his hands together in an attempt to warm them. On the fringe of the city spread the broad estate of the National Academy, that institute of higher learning responsible for the grooming of the officers of the future. The staff sergeant at the gate recognized the shabby figure and waved him through.

The young man rounded the squat building labelled _Barracks II_, and slid the heavy door open just enough to allow his slender form to pass through. The cadet in the cot nearest the door stirred a little in the unexpected draft, and the latecomer froze. When the sleeper rolled over and fell still, he moved as quietly as he could to his own place in the middle of the room. He stripped off his civilian rags with all haste. Once he was down to his standard-issue undergarments he reached into his footlocker to slip his notebook into one of his university texts. Then he rolled into bed, his exhausted body losing all cohesion. Weary and discouraged, he closed his eyes and let his mind ooze away in search of a couple hours' rest.


	2. Sleepless Nights

**Chapter 2: Sleepless Nights**

The colours were drilling on the parade grounds. From his vantage point on the roof of the armoury, Cadet Second Class Maes Hughes watched the spectacle in amusement. In theory, the colour guard represented the Academy's finest: dedicated young men who would one day become the paragon of military professionalism. In reality, they were a gaggle of gangling adolescents, stir-crazy after a long day of lectures and ready to goof off, no matter how loudly Master Sergeant Wickersham shouted. Forget paragon: these guys were a _parody_ of professionalism.

Maes chuckled to himself as one of his classmates tripped up the senior who was marching next to him. The regimental banner that the first-classman was carrying dipped dangerously close to the ground, but did not quite fall. There was a scuffle and an argument that the drill instructor broke up with a series of sharply barked commands.

For a while, order reigned. The exercises were executed with precision, not a step out of place. Maes was just starting to give up any hope of more entertainment when the Fourth Class pennant wavered. Maes adjusted his spectacles, squinting in an attempt to see what was going on. It just so happened that he had a particular vested interest in the Fourth Class pennant.

The little cadet carrying it had relaxed his grip, it seemed. In the sea of smoky blue it was hard for the myopic tinker's son to pick the seventeen-year-old out of the crowd. Maes noted critically the weary slope of the thin shoulders. Wickersham had seen the feint and was now shouting at the cadet. The boy saluted crisply, responding with the strong, sharp voice that was expected. Maes knew that that kind of response cost his quiet friend, emotionally as well as physically. After that, though, he didn't falter once.

When the drill was drawing to a close, Maes moved to the far side of the building where the empty munitions crates were stacked below. With agility that was the envy of his compatriots, Maes lowered himself onto the boxes and thus reached earth again. He meandered lazily towards the parade grounds, arriving just as the colour guard was starting to disperse.

Maes exchanged pleasantries with a couple of upperclassmen, and then found the cadet he sought.

"Yo, Roy," he said, holding out his fist for their customary greeting.

Cadet Fourth Class Roy Mustang knocked his gloved hand against his friend's bare one and smile vaguely. "Hey, Maes," he murmured.

The older youth's eyes narrowed to slits. Something was off. "Are you okay?" he asked quietly, not wanting any of the others to hear. His friend was the butt of a great deal of ridicule for everything from his appearance to his reticence concerning his personal history to his fervent dedication to the Academy. Maes did not want to give the perpetrators any more material to work with.

"I'm great," Roy said. He pulled off one white glove, doffed his dress-uniform hat, and raked a hand through his close-cropped sable hair.

"Are you sure?" Maes pressed. "I saw the flag dipping, Roy..."

His friend shot him a look of blackest annoyance. "The guys were horsing around," he said.

"Yeah, I saw that, too: I was watching the whole thing." Maes shrugged indolently. "Listen, we've got an hour 'til supper. You want to come back to my dorm and play some backgammon or something?"

Roy shook his head. "I have to get out of these," he said, plucking at the skirts of his dress uniform. "Then I thought I'd just go to the barracks."

"C'mon, Roy! I know you hate the barracks," Maes jibed. "Anything you can do there you can do just as easily and twice as comfortably in my room."

"Maes, I don't want favours," Roy said, starting towards the low, squat building that housed the first-year cadets. Undaunted, his friend followed him.

"You know," he said; "some people would be _glad _to have the patronage of an upperclassman as popular as me!"

"Yeah, and as modest as you, too," Roy grumbled. He dragged open the heavy, bunker-like door and entered the barracks. Maes grimaced empathetically, remembering his year in this drafty old barn. There were two hundred cadets in Roy's year, half of whom slept here in two long rows. Hospital screens at the far end cordoned off a semiprivate sleeping area for the three females in the first year class. Roy's bed was in the centre of the southern wall, and it was here that he went now, Maes on his tail.

"What's going on?" Maes asked, looking judiciously around the room. At this hour, most of the cadets were off enjoying their scanty leisure time. One was napping across the way, and on the other side of the divider one of the girls was bend over a Tactics textbook, but otherwise the barracks was deserted.

"Nothing," Roy told him, and then began to unbutton his coat with care. "I'm fine."

Maes frowned, taking in the other cadet's pallor and deeply shadowed eyes. Something was definitely up. Ten days ago, when the Victory Day break had ended, he had returned to the Academy broken-hearted and mourning the death of his older brother. Roy had come back tight-lipped and evasive, and the only thing that Maes had been able to wrangle from him was that his sensei, whom he had gone to visit, had given him a code containing his alchemical secrets – a code which Roy had yet to unlock. Since then, despite his best efforts, the elder youth had not managed to get any more information – at least not from Roy.

"You know what I think?" Maes asked. "I think you're tired."

"I'm a first-year," Roy said as he folded his uniform jacket carefully into its tissue-lined box. He took great pride in his garb, and in the full dress ensemble especially. He would have been more popular with his peers had he been less fastidious, but the instructors were delighted by young Mustang's dedication. "Of course I'm tired."

"True," Maes allowed; "the first year's a challenge. But you know what? I think it's all those after-hours forays into the city."

Roy's expression was immediately closed, as if someone had slammed the door and bolted the shutters. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Hughes."

"Oh, I think you do," Maes said lazily. He sat down on the cot next to Roy's, cocking his head to one side to watch his friend smooth his gloves and brush down the brim of his black hat. "Rumour has it that Cadet Mustang's taken a night job."

"So what? Lots of the men do it," Roy said defensively.

Maes was surprised. He had not expected such a frank admission. "But why?" he asked. "You don't have a family to support, and you've got almost enough to take your State exam. How'd you even get permission?"

Roy said nothing, but removed the fine cambric dress shirt and set it aside to be washed, then bent to remove his boots. Maes eyed his friend's torso critically. When Roy had come to Central almost two years ago, he had been a stick-thin fifteen-year-old, undersized and practically starving. Now, he had grown nearly six inches, the hollows in his ribs had almost filled out, and there were even compact muscles in his arms and back. Military life obviously agreed with him.

"You know I'll find out eventually," Maes said. "Or else how do I know you're working as a busboy at the Dockman's Arms?"

The look of surprise that flared Roy's eyes was exceedingly satisfying. "How..."

"It's on your dispensation form," Maes said.

"I _know_ it's on my dispensation form, but when did you see that?" Roy asked.

Maes smiled smugly. "I didn't. I had one of my informants in the records office get me the information."

Roy gawked for a moment, and then chuckled ruefully as he stepped out of his dress trousers. "Your informants," he echoed. "Fine. So I'm working as a busboy. What of it?"

"_Why?_" Maes asked. "You can't need the money."

"Can't I?" Roy asked darkly. Then he closed his eyes as if in deep thought. He sighed softly. "Maes, my sensei is dead."

It was the older cadet's turn to ogle in amazement. "Dead? When? How?"

"His lungs, apparently," Roy said, his eyes still screwed tightly shut. "He died the day I went to see him. The money... someone had to pay for the funeral. It's gone."

"Your money?" Maes breathed. He had never considered how costly a death was. The State, of course, had paid for Ira Hughes' burial, for he had been a sergeant and a war hero. "The money you were saving to take your State Alchemist's exam? _Twelve thousand sens_?"

Roy nodded tightly. "The estate was practically bankrupt. I couldn't let them bury him in a pauper's grave. It wouldn't have been fair to... anybody." He shrugged. "It's only money. I'll earn it back."

"Yeah, but don't you want to focus on your studies? You're obviously exhausted – why work nights if you don't have to?" Maes said. "I'll contribute my _per diem_, and next year you'll have six hundred _sens _a week instead of two – more if you take extra duty rotations. What's the hurry, anyway? You haven't unravelled his notes yet, have you?"

"No," Roy said, gritting his teeth. "No, I certainly haven't."

"Well, then. You don't need to be in such a rush to raise the fifteen thousand _sens_," Maes reasoned. "You don't have to work."

"I do," Roy argued.

"But..."

"I _do_."

The tone of Roy's voice made it obvious that he would brook no argument. Maes knew his friend better than to even try. "Fine," he said softly. "Fine. You have to work. But I want you to take my _per diem_, too. God knows I don't use even half of it."

"No, thank you," Roy told him curtly. "Now, if you don't mind, Maes, I'd... I'd like to have a quick nap before supper."

He wasn't going to budge, at least not today. Maes knew, however, that he would have ample opportunity to attempt to sway his friend. Now that he knew what was going on, he'd be able to wear away at Mustang's resolve until he finally agreed to take some portion of Maes' _per diem_. There was just one problem.

Maes was not at all sure that he had the full story.

_discidium_

At half past seven, Roy Mustang left the mess hall with the other cadets. While they all wandered off to the library or the common rooms to study, he returned to the barracks. He emerged five minutes later, having changed his smart uniform for a tatty gabardine suit, an utterly disreputable cap and a woollen muffler. He still wore his military boots, for he had no other cover for his feet, but as the trouser legs covered them to the ankle, this detail was not obvious. He crossed the square to the great iron gates, and showed his pass to the third class cadets manning it. They let him pass.

The walk into the city was a long one, and cold. He wished he could have taken a job nearer the Academy – perhaps at the Hopping Raven where the cadets were wont to congregate to drink and socialize. He had decided against trying, however, because he did not want to be seen as inferior to his comrades-at-arms. Bad enough that he was undersized and scrawny, with jet black hair and sloping sable eyes. Bad enough that he was one of the youngest cadets in his year. Bad enough that he had no family to talk about, no wealthy parents of whom to boast. If it were known that he was _working_ in addition to his studies, he would lose what little respect he had managed to commandeer these last three months.

He had not lied to the Academy authorities, nor to Maes. Though he had not told the whole truth, Roy _was _employed at the aptly-named Dockman's Arms – a seedy tavern down on the waterfront, in the very worst section of town. From twenty-hundred hours to oh-two-hundred each night, he cleared tables, scrubbed plates and was generally run off of his feet – all to supplement his meagre _per diem _with half as much again, not counting the occasional gratuity. The work was hard, the customers demanding, and the barman impatient and heavy-handed, but Roy had no choice. For he had undeniably misled Maes as to the reason that he needed the money. As much as he would have liked to rebuild his savings against the day when he might attempt the examination for a State Alchemist's licence, Roy Mustang had more pressing responsibilities.

So it was that every night, when his shift at the bar was over, he made another long trek through the night to a dilapidated tenement on a street full of Xingese. There, under the cracking slates of the roof, waited the reason for his added labours. Riza Hawkeye, the daughter of his sensei, had come with him to Central, and together they were working to decipher her father's research notes.

Or not _notes_, exactly.

Mordred Hawkeye had always been a difficult man to live with. Having come to the house when he was not quite eight, Roy had thought he understood the man's harsh temperament, mercurial moods and strict disciplinarian tendencies. He had looked upon his sensei as a great man, a genius stunted by tragedy and persistent ill-fortune. To the moment of his death, and in the days that immediately followed, that quixotic image had remained untarnished. It was on the night after the funeral when it had come crashing down into the rubble of disillusionment and horror.

Apparently fixated with protecting and preserving the knowledge of his own particular brand of alchemy, Hawkeye-sensei had gone to extraordinary lengths in his quest for secrecy. Not only had he devised a code that, as far as Roy could see, could not be broken, but he had ensured that the encrypted information could not be accessed by anyone without his daughter's consent.

While this in itself might have seemed sensible and not at all repugnant, his methods had destroyed any illusion of nobility. Hawkeye had chosen to tattoo the array and the code that doubtless contained instructions for its use onto the back of his daughter – his only living child. A little girl who had been not yet eleven when Roy had been sent from the house to discover his path in life, and who was now not yet thirteen. Hawkeye had betrayed his duty as a parent and as a human being, and mutilated his own child to serve his research.

The revelation had sickened Roy, shaking him to the core and cracking the very foundation of his being. He had looked upon Hawkeye-sensei as a father, and had never imagined him capable of such cruel depravity. Yet he had the proof before him: the marred back of a girl scarcely old enough to be considered a young lady. And worse, her spirit broken and her capacity for trust shattered by this abuse. Roy could not imagine what the application of the tattoo had entailed, but it had clearly changed her. As timid and quiet as she had been when he went away, she was withdrawn almost impossibly now. She was fearful of people, like a puppy too often whipped. Why she trusted _him _he could not say, but he was thankful that she did.

Her landlady, on the other hand, hated him. Tonight he gave her the customary bribe, endured her black looks, and ascended the long staircase as quickly as he could. The building in which Riza lived had four floors, and she was at the very top, under the eaves. The room was tiny, but not unreasonably wretched. It was a step up, at least, from the place where Roy had lived when he had first come to Central, before he had reached the age at which he might be accepted without question into the military.

She was waiting for him, sitting rigidly on the edge of her bed. Roy closed the door behind him, and took the packet from under his arm. Riza's carmine eyes slid involuntarily towards it, and he handed it to her. It was a good haul tonight: three half-sandwiches – one ham, two corned beef – a boiled egg, a dinner roll with butter, a fistful of almonds, an apple, and a small piece of shortbread. The girl's lips parted in a tiny "O" of wonder, and she almost smiled.

"Thank you," she breathed. Then she took the ham sandwich and bit ravenously into it.

"My pleasure," Roy said, belying his guilt. He wished with all his heart that there was enough money to buy Riza food of her own. But Central was burgeoning with refugees from the south, fleeing the war with Aerugo, and from the west, doing the same from Creda, and from the east, where years of unrest had built into riots and finally into a full-scale uprising. The influx of people and the booming economics that attended a nation in wartime had driven up the price of lodgings.

Riza had a little money of her own: one thousand sens that had been a gift from her schoolteacher, intended as a scholarship should she decide to pursue further education. Out of necessity, it had been used to pay for the first month's rent on her room. Of what was to be Roy's twelve hundred _sens_ a month, ten hundred would be needed for next month's. The remaining two would be just barely enough to buy coal, and any money he earned in tips was used to bribe the landlady – for Roy was due back at the Academy at oh-two-thirty, the very hour at which he usually turned up at her door. Until either Roy found better work or something changed drastically, Riza would have to be fed out of his duty rations. Each day he pocketed what could be carried – porridge, soup, scrambled eggs, mashed potatoes and so forth could not – and each night he brought it to her. This was the eleventh night since they had arrived in Central together, and she did not yet appear to be losing weight, so Roy hoped that this arrangement would suffice for a little while.

"Mr. Mustang?" Riza repeated, and Roy realized that she had said something. He looked at her helplessly, but her eyes softened in understanding. "I said that I need to find work: this can't go on."

"Oh, no, there's no hurry..." Roy began, but then he stopped. In all likelihood she was sick of sitting here, day in and day out in this dreary little room, with a landlady who suspected the worst and nothing to eat but gleanings from the Academy mess. Quite probably, she was longing for some change, _any _change. Also, though he considered his contribution to her upkeep to be a solemn duty, he knew how he would have felt had Maes paid his rent in those early days. Riza doubtless felt the same, and it would be useless for him to try to reason with her otherwise. "Would you _like_ to find work?" he asked.

Riza nodded. "I came to Central because you need the information on my... the information I have. I didn't come so that I could be a burden to you. You've been so very kind, but I want to take care of myself. Y-you understand, don't you?"

"I understand perfectly," Roy promised. "You aren't a burden to me: never think that. I'm glad to be able to do something for you after..."

He had been about to say _after all you've been through_, but he caught himself just in time. "After you've consented to help me with my studies," he finished lamely. It was a wretched euphemism, a desperate attempt to avoid admitting to what her father had done to her – and what _he_ now did to her night after night as he attempted to discover the secrets concealed beneath her shabby blouse.

"I'm proud to do it," Riza said. "Your dream... a better Amestris, a better world. If I can do anything to help you achieve that, I'm proud to do it."

Her eyes glittered like garnets as she spoke. By the light of the candle, she looked unspeakably beautiful in her bleak and dilapidated surroundings: the very personification of hope against all odds, of optimism in the face of impossible obstacles. She was the embodiment of faith in a brighter future. A better future. A future that they would build together, if it was within the power of humanity to achieve. Her belief in him bolstered Roy's faith in himself. He could do this. _They_ could do this. They could and they would.

Now, if only he could decipher the array on her back.

He looked back at Riza. She had her blouse in her hand, and had turned her back to him as she climbed onto the bed. "Maybe tonight you'll find the key," she whispered, as if she had read his thoughts. "Maybe tonight."


	3. Women's Work

**Chapter 3: Woman's Work**

Riza Hawkeye was twelve years old. _Nearly_ thirteen, but not quite. She knew she looked older, because although she was small she was well-developed for her age. The short hair, too, added a year or two to her appearance, as childish pigtails or pretty little plaits never would have. She dressed like an older girl, for her clothes had been made in such a way as to conserve cloth, and fashionable women wore more snugly fitted skirts than did children. Surely she looked fourteen. Maybe even _fifteen_. And yet, wherever she went the same comment was made: "You're too young!"

Riza had thought that it would be easy to find work, especially in a big city like Central. She was a good hard worker, and she knew she was intelligent because she had her school diploma, which most girls didn't get until they were sixteen or even seventeen. She was quiet and respectful, and she knew how to do as she was told. She had certainly not expected to find a high-paying job, or a prestigious one, but she had certainly expected to find _something._

It had seemed most sensible to start the search near her lodgings. So she had arisen one morning as early as she could – which considering that Mr. Mustang always visited her shortly after two o'clock was not especially early. She dressed in the best of her tatty garments: her black skirt, a white blouse, and the warm cardigan that had been a gift from her dear friend Benjamin Hughes. She washed her face in the water closet downstairs, which she shared with the family who rented the corner room below her, and the three students who occupied the other garret closets. Satisfied that at least she did not look like the rag-picker's child, she had descended into the street.

Some girls worked in shops, and so that was what she tried first. She tried a butcher shop, and a little bookstore, and several pawnbrokers (a business that thrived in the slums of Central). Each time, she was told that they didn't need help and anyway she was too young.

She knew that some girls worked as apprentices to seamstresses or dressmakers. Riza couldn't sew well, apart from a little mending – she couldn't even darn stockings. She was willing to learn, however, and that was what she told the ones she visited. Most of them sent her impatiently away. One elderly tailor laughed in her face. At the last one she visited, one of the journeywomen followed her into the street and gave her a fifty-_sens_ piece and a sorrowful pat on the head. Riza bristled at the act of charity, but practicality won out over pride. She bought a fifteen-_sens_ loaf of three-day-old bread, and saved the rest of the money to turn over to Mr. Mustang. He told her to keep it and use it for food on the days when he could not bring enough for her.

Next Riza tried bakeries, to see if any of them wanted a capable girl to wash dishes or sweep floors. Then she went to one or two restaurants, but it soon became obvious that such places employed boys, not girls. By the end of her third week in Central, Riza was weary, discouraged, and despairing of ever finding work.

Mr. Mustang did his best to help, but he could not come to help her during the day, and in any case he was almost as lost as she was. His experience with job-hunting was limited: he had done the same thing that she had, but with more success, for he was not only older but also male. Still, he managed to get a little advice from some of the other cadets (though, he promised, without telling them the reason for his questions), and came one Monday night – or rather, Tuesday morning – with a copy of the _Central Gazette_.

_Educated Girl wanted_, one advertisement read. _Strong literacy skills a Must. Dictation, secretarial work, Light cleaning. Shorthand skill Required._

Riza didn't know shorthand.

_Notary Public requires polite, professional Female for secretarial duties. Independent work Ethic a must. Training provided in Shorthand and typing. Those under 21 Need Not Apply_.

Riza might pass for fifteen, but no one would take her for twenty-one.

_Clerk required. School diploma an asset. Courteous and Quiet person sought. Book work and Standard Calculations, some contact with Public._

That seemed perfect, but when Riza made the three-mile trip to the other side of the river, she was told quite unkindly that they were looking for a man.

_Nursemaid and junior Governess sought for Colonel's children, aged 1, 3 and 6. Duties include Assistance with Childcare Duties, maintenance of Nursery and elementary instruction in Reading and Mathematics. References of Character a necessity._

Riza had no references, of course, and though Mr. Mustang had offered to write one for her, she had declined. The nature of their association had to remain a secret, for her protection and for the sake of his reputation. They could not risk it for something as minor as a job.

_Junior governess needed for Supplementing formal education at Zethbridge Finishing School. Two charming Girls, aged 8 and 12, requiring special tutelage in History, Geography and Grammar_.

Mr. Mustang was confident that Riza had the discipline and knowledge base required, but she was apprehensive: she was the same age as the elder girl!

_Nursemaid required for Adorable baby Boy of 7 months. General nursery duties to be undertaken. Responsible, polite and Well-Deported girl needed._

Riza responded to that advertisement but of course the parents, a young lieutenant and his wife, wanted someone who was... well... _older_. Still, Riza got a nice cup of tea, and the lady gave her money to take the streetcar back to the tenement.

_Young girl sought as Companion and Nursemaid to exquisite seven-year-old Heiress. Successful candidate will work under __Supervision of qualified Nanny and Governess. Primary duties include Entertainment and Encouragement of charge. Wages competitive, Lodgings and Meals provided._

That sounded lovely, and since they wanted a "companion" and not a "nursemaid", they might not mind Riza's youth. Mr. Mustang agreed that it seemed like a good placement. The address in the advertisement was for an estate on the edge of town, and Mr. Mustang wanted her to wait until Sunday so that he could escort her. Riza, however, did not want to look as if she needed such supervision. She thanked him politely, but decided to go by herself.

On Thursday afternoon, she squandered fifty _sens _on the four streetcar rides needed to reach the northwest side of the city. She watched in wonder as the houses grew more and more opulent, and the gardens progressively more exquisite. At last, she reached the end of the rails, where the suburbs gave way to the broad acreages of the wealthiest of Central's citizens. Riza walked along demure lanes lined with meticulously tended hedges and elegant oak trees, past enormous homes surrounded by manicured lawns. The further she went, the larger and more opulent the estates grew... and the more uncomfortable Riza grew.

When she came at last to the gates of the vast grange listed in the newspaper, her heart stopped. It was the most magnificent property she had yet seen. A high stone wall encircled the land, with a mammoth gate of exquisitely wrought iron opening upon the long paved drive. She clutched one of the gate-rails, and peered through at the gardens. The beds were overflowing with exotic and elegant flowers, the shrubs were shaped into animals and sculptures. There was a large fountain, spraying high into the air. Near it stood a marble statue of a man in military garb, so carefully shaped that Riza fancied she could see muscles rippling beneath the "cloth" of the coat. The house itself was larger than any of the others she had passed, with columns and windows and half a dozen chimneys. Riza gaped at it, unable to move or to speak.

Then she realized that there was a man sitting on one of the ornately carved marble benches near the gate. He was the largest human she had ever seen, with a big barrel chest and a thick bull neck. He was almost bald, and he had a lavish blonde moustache. He had been reading a book that Riza thought she recognized from her late father's collection of alchemy texts – but when he saw her, he looked up. When he spoke, his voice was deep and lyrical, reverberating overpoweringly through the air.

"Well, now!" he thundered. "Are you applying for the post of playmate for my little sister? The tradition of engaging—"

Riza did not hear any more, for she turned heel and fled, frightened by the large man, but even more so by the grandeur of the house. She could not work in such a place. She could not imagine being the "companion" of the kind of heiress who lived _there_. Shabby little Riza Hawkeye, a penniless refugee from the eastern countryside... she had no place in such a world.

She had money for the streetcar, but now that she knew she had yet again failed to find work Riza could not justify the expense. So she walked, all the way back through the presidential district, down into the core of the city, across the river and back to the slums. By that time, it was after dark, and she was shaking with cold. The streets in this poor quarter were busy even at this late hour, but with the least savoury sort of people. Riza almost tripped over an opium-eater, lying in the gutter on a street corner as he rode the narcotic high of his latest fix. A scantily-clad woman stepped hopefully forward, for a moment taking Riza, with her plain clothes and her short hair, for a young man who might have put a little business her way. Riza shivered, hugging herself as she hurried on.

She was two blocks from her tenement building when she heard someone cough behind her. Riza tried to keep walking, but a strong arm seized her elbow.

"Where're you going, girly?" a gravelly voice demanded.

"H-home," Riza said, her pulse quickening and her instincts screaming. She was in danger! She had to get away! This man was dangerous.

"Oh, yeah? Mother lookin' for you? Father waitin' for his little girl?" the stranger cooed, pulling her backwards against his chest. His other arm snaked around her front, clutching at her stomach. "Or maybe there in't anybody, hmm? You know what I think, girly? I think you're alone in the world!"

"I'm not... I'm _not_!" Riza sputtered, trying to wrench away. The man caught her more tightly, and one hand crept up to grab her breast.

Riza panicked. He shouldn't touch her there! It was private! He _shouldn't _touch her there! What did he want with her? She strained against the strong arms, gasping in the stink of liquor and cheap tobacco. The man only held more tightly, pinning her arms at her sides. He didn't have control of her legs, however, and Riza turned around so that her face was pressed against his stinking jacket. The man seemed to interpret this as some sign of consent, for he snuffled lecherously into her hair.

"There, now, told you so!" he grunted, clawing at her back.

Riza slipped her leg between his, and he exhaled heavily against her. Then, as hard and as quick as she could, she raised her knee. With a howl of anguish, the man fell back, staggering away from her.

"You leave me _alone_!" Riza shouted.

"Y'little _bitch_..." the man snarled, his voice several semitones higher than before. He tried to stumble forward, but pain and drunkenness got the better of him, and he fell to the pavement.

Riza waited for no further prompting. She turned and fled, her poorly-shod feet striking the pavement again and again as she flew around the corner and up the street to her own door. She nearly wrenched it from its hinges as she fell into the dingy corridor, panting while her heart pounded painfully against her ribs. She clutched at the threadbare carpet, trying desperately to calm down.

"You are all right?"

Riza stiffened. The low voice that spoke to her in broken Amestrian accented thickly with Xingese was familiar: her landlady.

"_Chibi_, you are all right? So late: out after dark?"

The old lady squatted down with a soft grunt, and put a hand on Riza's shoulder. She cocked her head to one side. "You are all right?" she repeated.

Riza looked up, fixing her large eyes on the landlady's narrow ones. She tried to compose her features, but it was no use. Her lower lip quivered, her chest palpitated, and before she realized what was happening, she burst into tears. Somehow – afterwards she could not remember the details – she fell forward into the old woman's arms. The landlady held her close, rocking her and muttering incoherent syllables of Xingese. Then suddenly Riza was in the dank parlour, sipping green tea from a cup without a handle, and watching as the woman prepared cucumber sandwiches with a rusty knife. The old woman did not speak, except to urge Riza to eat, and when the sandwiches were gone she wiped Riza's cheeks with a grubby handkerchief, reminded her that the rent was due in a week's time, and sent her up the stairs.

Riza undressed, washed her face and her underarms, and then prepared herself for Mr. Mustang's visit, though her fingers trembled and her mind kept straying back to the horrible encounter in the street. She couldn't think about it. She couldn't bear to think about it. She had escaped; that was all that was important. She was safe. She was safe. She _was_.

_discidium_

Roy leaned upon the doorpost for a moment before entering the tenement building. It had been a long, weary day, and he wanted to crawl back to the Academy and collapse into his cot, but the nightly appointment had to be kept. He had to keep trying, and anyway, he had Riza's food under his arm.

No sooner had he stepped into the corridor than the old Xingese woman appeared in the corridor. Roy doffed his cap.

"Good evening, Mrs. Leung," he said courteously, digging out the coins he owed her.

Instead of taking the money and backing away, she moved into the hall so that her squat body blocked his way. "No," she said.

"What?" Roy breathed. "I always..."

"_No_, I say. Not this night. Go away." She thrust out her lip so that she very nearly lost her plug of snuff.

"Why not?" Roy asked. "I need to see her."

The woman shook her head. "No! She have bad night. You leave her sleep. Go somewhere else."

"A bad night?" Roy's heart leapt to his throat and he felt suddenly nauseated. What had happened? Riza had intended to answer that advertisement today, he knew. Had she run into trouble? Was she hurt? Upset? "I have to see her."

He pushed past the landlady, making good use of his new military muscles. She grabbed his elbow, but he tore away.

"I have to make sure she's all right!" he snapped, and then without further argument bolted up the stairs.

To his surprise the landlady did not follow, and when he turned at the landing he saw her looking up at him, strangely pensive.

Roy reached the top floor, and rapped softly at Riza's door. There was no answer. He knocked again, calling her name softly. When there was still no reply, Roy pushed the door gently open and slipped inside.

The room was dark, and the heater unlit. By the dim light filtering in through the filthy window, he could see Riza, curled up on the bed. She was dressed for their nightly examination, but she was fast asleep, and there were grubby tear-tracks on her cheeks. Roy closed the door and drew the bolt, then stepped forward and reached out.

He hesitated for a moment, not sure that he had any right to touch her like this, while she slept. Then he gave in and brushed a damp tendril of hair away from her left eye. Riza stirred in her sleep, and murmured something inaudible. Roy drew the coverlet over her, not wanting to rouse her. It seemed that neither of them were in any state to be about their usual business tonight. Riza's eyelids fluttered, and suddenly two carmine orbs were staring up at him.

"Mr. Mustang..." she breathed.

He hated it when she used that absurd honorific. It made them seem like strangers, not people who had grown up together and should have been close as siblings. Still, it seemed to comfort her to keep him at a distance, and it didn't _really_ matter what she called him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you," he said softly. "I... I brought your supper."

She smiled almost imperceptibly. "Thank you."

"Mrs. Leung said you had a bad day. What happened?"

Riza shivered convulsively and sat up, pulling the blanket around herself. "Nothing," she said. "N-nothing at all. I'm just tired."

She was tired _and_ she had been weeping, but Roy did not want to shame her by pointing that out. He tried to smile. "I was just leaving," he said. "I'm tired, too, and I don't think I'll have any luck tonight."

"No!" Riza gasped, reaching out and seizing the sleeve of his shabby suit jacket. "No, you have to! If... if you don't tonight..." A tremor wracked her slender frame. "I... I might never get up the courage... you... I want to do it tonight."

Roy gawked a little, and then nodded. "All right," he said softly. "I'll just... do you want to eat first?"

Riza shook her head. "Thank you, I'm not hungry," she murmured. Then she removed her shirt and settled on her stomach. "Can you see it, Mr. Mustang?"

"Yes," Roy sighed, sitting down next to her. Cautiously, he put a hand on her arm. A fine tremor was still coursing through her, but his touch seemed to soothe it. She slowly began to relax, but she did not fall asleep that night.


	4. The Same Boat

**Chapter 3: The Same Boat**

Of the five regional institutions that trained young men (and now a handful of young women each year also) to become officers, the National Academy in Central was the most prestigious. It had the highest academic standards for applicants and cadets, and where the other academies accepted letters of endorsement from any officer with a rank of captain or higher, one needed the sponsorship of a lieutenant colonel at the very least in order to be eligible for acceptance to the National Academy. Because of this, most of the cadets were the children of the wealthy: sons of officers or politicians or influential businessmen. They were young men who had lived lives of privilege and ease, and the adaptation to the rigid discipline of military life was not easy. The fourth-class cadets, especially, struggled to adjust to their new environment, where not only were they without mothers (and in some cases servants) to wait upon them, but they were expected to obey without question the orders of the faculty, the enlisted support staff, and even the more senior cadets.

For Roy Mustang, the transition to life in the Academy had been an easy one. Unlike his classmates, he had not lived a privileged life. He remembered nothing of his early childhood, but before the age of five he had run away from the State orphanage in East City, and he had survived on his own for three years before coming to the house of his sensei. He had been taken in by the Hawkeye family in a large part because Riza, who had then been three years of age, had taken a fancy to him. In the early years, he had witnessed the growing derangement of Lian Hawkeye, Riza's half-Ishbalan mother, as she descended into madness. After her death, Mordred Hawkeye had morphed slowly from a cold, indifferent man to a stringent and often abusive one. Hawkeye-sensei had imposed a strict code of discipline upon the children in his care, and the consequences for disobedience had been more than a little unpleasant. Roy had learned from an early age to keep his head down and his eyes front, and to do as he was told.

As it turned out, this was _excellent_ training for military life. Here, however, there was the added advantage of consistency. Hawkeye-sensei had been unpredictable at best: one moment merry, the next violent. At the Academy, Roy could always predict the consequences of his actions. Disobedience was punished with verbal abuse, temporary loss of privileges, or physical exercise, such as abdominal crunches, push-ups, and laps around the parade grounds. Obedience was rewarded with curt approval and even the occasional word of praise. Exceptional performance won accolades from instructors – not flowery eulogies, but certainly sincere affirmation – and occasionally added freedoms. To avoid reprimands, Roy had only to follow the rules. It was simple, formulaic, and extraordinarily comforting.

Unfortunately, since he found the adjustment so easy and many of his compatriots struggled with it, Roy was not the most popular person in the first-year class. True, he was hardly hated, and he was certainly not tormented by the cadets as he had been by his fellow pupils in primary school. But he was an easy target for teasing, being not only dedicated but small, thin, and dark – in a group of tall, burly, fair-headed boys of solid Amestrian stock. There were rumours that he was Xingese, which Roy could scarcely deny since he knew nothing about his parents. With that gossip came the inevitable suspicions that his mother had been a prostitute, or something equally disreputable, and so while much of the teasing was good-natured, some was thoroughly mean-spirited.

He had been at the Academy for almost four months now, and still his only friend was Maes Hughes, who was two years above him. The two had been fast friends since Roy's early days at school, when the bespectacled tinker's son had defended him from the village bullies. Every summer until Maes enlisted to help in the conflict with Aerugo, the two boys had spent several weeks together before the itinerant Hugheses had moved on. They knew each other as well as any brothers, which could sometimes be inconvenient, especially when Roy was trying to keep a secret from the older cadet.

"I told you, Maes; I have to get money for the exam," Roy said, shifting his arm in the hopes that Maes could not see the bulge in his pocket where he had stuffed most of his supper.

"Yeah, but why won't you let me help with that so you can get a full night's sleep?" Hughes pressed, shuffling around another cadet to secure a place in the line for the washbasins. "You can't _like_ working as a busboy."

"Why not?" Roy asked. "It's an interesting change from Academy life."

"You _love_ Academy life!"

"Well, I get to have the leavings from customers' drinks," Roy pointed out. "Some of the rivermen have good taste in whiskey." Joking about liquor was socially acceptable behaviour among the cadets, but the truth was that draining the dregs from the near-empty glasses was just about the only thing that sustained him through the twenty-one-hour days, but he didn't want Maes to think he was a drunkard.

As he had hoped, Maes chuckled. "Fair enough," he said. "Listen, I'm taking a little time next week, so I was thinking I could come with you and make sure they're treating you right."

He winked amicably from behind his spectacles, but Roy bristled. "Maes, I can take care of myself!"

"I know that, and _I'd _like an excuse to do something other than study or get wasted at the _Raven_."

The _Hopping Raven_ was the pub nearest the Academy campus, where most of the cadets spent a good share of their free time. Though the first-years (save of course those, like Roy, who had employment dispensations) were allowed out only one night a week, grouped according to academic major, the other years had more freedom in their schedules. Maes, as a third year, was entitled to an average of three nights a week – which meant that he could bank time, staying in for a week, and then going out every night the following week if he wanted to. Since Maes was older than the average cadet, and had eighteen months' experience as an NCO, he wasn't as interested in drinking himself into a stupor. Roy, being seventeen and longing naturally to fit in, would have loved to join his classmates... but of course, he had responsibilities that they did not.

"I don't want you underfoot when I'm trying to work," Roy said.

"Oh, right. I forgot: bussing tables is such delicate work!" Coming from anyone else, the remark would have sounded cruel and catty. From Maes, it was just a good-natured dig.

Roy smirked a little. "Yeah, and you should see the dishwashing! I use a toothbrush. Better accuracy, you see."

Maes laughed, depositing his soiled dishes into the basin of soapy water and scrubbing them quickly with the cloth provided. "I should get you to do mine, then, since you're such an expert," he said. "I can't wait 'til we're officers and don't have to do this anymore."

"Unless we get sent to the front," Roy said sagely. "Armies on the move can't pack support staff."

"They'd better pack a cook, at least!" Maes laughed. "If I have to survive on my own cooking, the Aerugan's won't _have _to kill me!"

His laugh was cut short as his own words struck home. Roy watched as the smile vanished from Maes' lips. His brother Ira had received a fatal wound on the southern front, and though Maes tried to be his usual buoyant self, it was obvious that the wounds of that loss were still raw.

"Hey, Maes..." the younger cadet said softly, dropping his dishes into the basin and gripping his friend's arm.

"I still... I can't believe it, you know?" Maes choked out, forcing a shaky smile. "I mean, I always figured that _Ben_ would be the first one to go..."

"Move along, Mustang!" one of the NCOs in the kitchen barked. Roy stiffened to attention, wiping his dishes hastily. He followed Maes down to the stacks of clean china, set down his plate and his cutlery, and then moved on towards the exit of the mess hall.

"Maes, I'm sorry," Roy said impotently. The six Brothers Hughes and their father had been an inseparable band until the war in the south had drawn first Ira and then Maes into the military, and taken Eli, the third brother and a master glassgrinder, for the production of rifle sights. As far as Roy knew, Ben, Gareth and Tiath, brothers one, two and four, were still out there somewhere, travelling with their father and plying their trades, but it was obvious that the family had been badly fractured by Ira's death.

"I know, buddy," Maes said, veering to the left out of the stream of traffic that led towards the dormitories where the upperclassmen lived. He dug in his pocket for his handkerchief, and wiped his eyes before blowing his nose. "But I mean... it was bound to happen. He was a soldier. It could happen to any of us."

Roy nodded mutely. It was a possibility he had not even considered before news of Ira's death had reached him in Hamner – oddly enough, on the very day of his sensei's funeral. Any one of the young men with whom he drilled, ate, bunked and studied might be doomed to fall to an Aerugan bullet or a Credoan bayonet, or to be stabbed in the back by a rebellious Ishbalan in some dirty street scuffle. It was sobering, and terrifying.

Maes tucked away his handkerchief, adjusted his specs, and then reached out to hug Roy tightly. The tinker's son was a naturally affectionate person, but the one-time gutter rat was not. The physical contact startled Roy, and only the fact that it was Maes prevented him from struggling. He let the taller youth squeeze him and timidly patted Maes' spine, trying to hide his discomfiture. When Maes let go, Roy tried to smooth his uniform and collect his dignity.

"I have to go," he said apologetically. "If I don't hurry and get moving, I'll be late for work."

Maes nodded. He smiled genuinely, his brief melancholy faded. "Sure. I'm going to pop in on you one of these nights, Mustang. Just be warned!"

Roy rolled his eyes. "Yes, Uncle Maes," he laughed. Then he hurried off, to change out of his uniform and into his nondescript civilian rags. For his classmates, the working day was over. For him, the night's labour had only begun.

_discidium_

The words on Riza's back had cadence and rhyme. They were lines of verse. Yet in two places there were words that did not fit with the others. On the bottom right corner was _lupus_, which was "wolf". On the upper left, just below the corner of her shoulder blade, was the word _latrocinium_. That too was a noun, meaning either "highway robbery", or "a group of robbers". These two words were the only ones not in a proper sentence or phrase: they had been dropped seemingly randomly into the design of the tattoo.

Roy knew his sensei never did anything without some purpose. If those two words did not fit with the others, there was a reason. He just had to find it out. Wolf. A group of robbers. Or a team, he thought. Or a faction, maybe.

"Gang," whispered the cadet sitting next to him. Roy stiffened, his hand flying to cover the words that he had been scrawling in the margin of his Tactics workbook. The other cadet grinned toothily. "They're synonyms, right? _Group, team, faction_... gang. Working on a crossword?"

"Uh... yeah," Roy said. "Yeah, but it's five letters, not four and... uh... it's got a 'q' in it."

"Mustang and Walters, eyes front!" the instructor barked out. The two young men straightened instinctively, returning their focus, at least ostensibly, to what they were supposed to be doing. Roy, however, continued to turn the question over in his head.

_Gang wolf, team wolf, robber wolf... _wolf pack, maybe? Did the cipher have something to do with a pack of wolves? But what did wolves have to do with flame alchemy? It didn't matter, he realized. The key to the enigma might have absolutely nothing to do with alchemy at all. If that was the case, though, how was Roy, who knew nothing _but_ alchemy, supposed to unravel it?

Riza had told him that the code was supposed to be unbreakable to the average alchemist. Her father had told her that, and Roy wondered now if that was a clue. Maybe the key _did_ have nothing to do with alchemy. If that was the case, then what was it? It was maddening.

_Wolf. Highway robbery._ It made no sense.

_discidium_

Riza found work at the end of her fifth week in Central City. It was not employment near her lodgings, nor in a shop. She was not an apprentice to a dressmaker, nor a maid of all work for a baker, nor a nursemaid nor a junior governess nor any of the things she had expected to find work as. She was a factory worker.

The factory made, of all useless things, silk flowers. The printing, punching and sorting was all carried out by machines modified and maintained with alchemy by a practitioner who was so far inferior to either her father or to Mr. Mustang that even Riza could see the difference. The construction, however, was done by hand, by twenty-seven girls in three assembly lines. Each line made a different flower: one roses, one lilies, and one daisies.

A conveyor belt brought the materials down in a neat pile. In the rose line, the first girl took a wire from a bin by her hip, and with a piece of silk thread from a dispenser by her head bound three petals to it. The next girl attached six larger petals. The next twisted on a second wire, halfway down the first, so that two ends stuck out opposite one another. The fourth affixed a dark green leaf, and the next a light green one. Then the sixth girl wrapped the stem with green ribbon, covering the places where the silk pieces were affixed to the wire. The seventh girl took three quick stitches to hold the ribbon in place. The eighth bent the flower ever so slightly into a jaunty angle, and the ninth girl wrapped it in tissue and set it in a box. When the box had one gross of flowers, it was full, and the foreman would punch the card for the team and take the box away to be packed and shipped.

Riza only knew the workings of the rose line, for that was the one on which she worked. She was the third girl in the line, responsible for twisting the second piece of wire around the first. It seemed in theory like an easy task, but she soon discovered that it was anything but. The wires were tiny, not three inches long, and she had to twist the ends together three times, tightly and perfectly each time. The repetitive motion made her wrists and elbows ache, and the thin wire wore away at her fingertips so that by the end of the first day they were torn and bleeding. She was obliged to stand at the belt for the whole of her shift, so that her legs and her back ached, and her feet in their shoddy shoes felt ravaged as if by white-hot knives. Worst of all, the work was mind-numbingly dull. The girls were not allowed to converse while working, and Riza had nothing to occupy her mind but remembered recitation lessons from her brief years of schooling.

Still, she worked five days a week, and for ten hours a day instead of the twelve that labourers at most factories did. She was paid seventeen _sens_ a day. It was not a great deal of money, but at least she could do _something_ to help Mr. Mustang with the cost of her upkeep. At eighty-five _sens_ a week, she could hardly help with the rent, but she was able to buy her own coal, and food sometimes, too.

One night, when she had been working almost a fortnight, Mr. Mustang came up to her room as usual, but looking weary and discouraged.

"It's no good, Riza," he said at last, when he had given her the food he had brought and brushed the snow from his shoulders. "I'm obviously not worthy of your father's research."

"You can't give up," Riza said softly. "Please, Mr. Mustang. Don't give up. You'll figure it out. Y—you're not an ordinary alchemist."

"I'm hardly an alchemist at all," he muttered, sitting down heavily on the battered chair. "I have no time to practice, I have no style of my own, there's nothing extraordinary about me at all."

"You're _younger_ than most alchemists," Riza pointed out. "My... father was an apprentice until he was almost twenty." Sometimes it was hard to remember that Mr. Mustang was only a little more than four years her senior. Somehow he seemed much older. Perhaps it was because he was already in the military, training to serve his country and to protect the people of Amestris.

A sick chuckle bubbled up in the young soldier's throat. "I'm not making any progress, Riza," he confessed. "None. I'm no further ahead than I was when we started. It's been two months, and I'm _no further ahead_."

"B-but you've translated all the text. You know what it says," Riza protested desperately. He couldn't give up! It was a code, a perfect cipher, but it could be broken. Riza knew it could be broken. It _had_ to be breakable, for then she could pass the information on and be done. She was tired of protecting it: the burden of bearing her father's research gnawed eternally at her heart. Until she could ensure that it had been passed on to his worthy successor, she would never be able to rest. She was weary of that responsibility, and if only Mr. Mustang could decode the array then she could be free of it.

"It's just a Latin verse," Mr. Mustang said morosely. "'_When the evil are confounded and consigned to flames of woe'... _and along the right side, '_day of wrath! That day will dissolve the earth in ashes'_. Or between the serpents, where it says '_mournful that day when from the dust shall rise guilty Man to be judged'. _And _'in thy merciful goodness grant that I burn not in everlasting fire_'... they're all images of flame, all right, but there's no instructions there. None that I can see, anyway. I..."

He stopped, seeing the expression on Riza's face. When she had heard him muttering the words to himself, she had thought them lyrical and almost exotic. _Dies irae, dies illa solvet saeclum in favilla_. She had almost liked the sounds, and she had been glad that, if she had to have something carved into her skin, at least it was something nearly pretty. Now, listening to the snippets that he translated, she was horrified. Images of fire and darkness and all-consuming guilt. Dissolve the earth in ashes? Everlasting fire? _These _were the words that she carried on her slender back?

"It's... it's not all like that," Mr. Mustang choked out. "There's... '_lux perpetual luceat est'_, which means 'may perpetual light shine upon them", or '_dona eis requiem_'. That's 'grant them rest'. And... a-and '_voca sua cum benedictis'._"

He looked away, staring resolutely at the candle that he had brought with him. Riza moistened her lips with her tongue.

"W-what does that mean?" she asked quietly.

He turned back to her, and there was such pain in her eyes that Riza wished she had not said it. "'Call her among the blesséd'," he whispered.

"Call who?" The words were out before Riza could censor them.

"You, I think," breathed Mr. Mustang. He got to his feet and crossed the room – a matter of two steps. He raised his hand and pressed it against the wall just above his head, as if by doing so he could force out whatever demon was tormenting him.

"Me?" Riza trembled. Her father thought she was blessed? He had wanted her to be called among the blesséd? An unfamiliar warmth coursed through her. In the years after her mother's death, her father had distanced himself from her as if she was not worthy of his attention. He had only noticed her to criticize her, save during those weeks when he was applying the tattoo to her back. Then, it seemed, he was only interested in the preservation of his research, and in coaching her in her duties as its guardian. Now, she realized that he had taken the opportunity to mark her with a sign of his favour, too... however small. _Call her among the blessed_. She, Riza Hawkeye, was blessed in her father's eyes after all.

Mr. Mustang didn't seem to see it that way. His back was tense, and though she could not see his face she knew that he was suffering. Strangers they might be, now, but once they had been the closest of friends. She could read his emotions as clearly as her own.

"Sir? Mr. Mustang?" Riza ventured.

"Damn it, Riza, _why_ do you have to call me that?" he moaned, slumping forward so that his forehead was pressed against the peeling wallpaper. "He's _dead_. You don't have to obey him anymore."

It was her father who had first enforced the rule, forbidding them from using one another's given names. It had been in reaction to something that Mr. Mustang – in those days Roy – had done. Riza didn't remember quite what, but she thought he had struck his sensei in the heat of an argument. In any case, it had become habit, and after Mr. Mustang had gone away and abandoned her without even saying goodbye, vanishing for two long years, it was the most natural thing to refer to him as she would any adult.

"I... I'm sorry, Mr. Mustang, but..."

He whirled around, his pale face strained. "No, _I'm_ sorry, Riza," he choked out. "I d-didn't mean to snap at you like that. It doesn't matter what you call me; I don't mind it, really. I'm just so tired, that's all. I-I'm so _tired_..."

She got up from her seat on the bed, exerting a conscious effort to keep from wincing as she put her weight on her sore feet. "Come on," she said softly, plucking at his sleeve with one stiff hand. "You don't have to work tonight. Come and lie down instead."

He shook his head. "I've got to..."

"Not tonight," Riza said. "You can't concentrate properly when you're tired. I know _I_ can't. Lie down and sleep a little."

He muttered a half-hearted protest, but let her lead him to the bed. He sat wearily down and Riza smiled encouragingly. "I'll wake you up when it's time to go back," she promised, putting a hand on his clavicle and easing him backwards onto the limp pillow.

"But..." he protested.

Riza shook her head resolutely and drew the tatty bedclothes over him. "I'm stubborn, too," she warned him.

Roy looked like he wanted to retort, but he was half asleep already. His eyes kept drifting closed, and the tension was leeching out of his shoulders. Riza sat down on the edge of the bed – just where he always perched while he studied the markings on her back. She watched with an air of propriety as he finally succumbed to slumber. He might look out for her, but she could look out for _him_, too. After all, they were both in this mess together.


	5. Fruitless Efforts

**Chapter 5: Fruitless Efforts**

Maes Hughes was a criminology major. As a matter of fact, he was the only criminology major in the whole third-year class. When he had enrolled in the Academy, seeking a change from the monotony of life in the enlisted ranks, he had originally thought to major in psychology. It seemed an interesting subject, and he understood people quite well. Then he had taken a course in the history of organized crime, and his academic aspirations had changed. Criminology was _much _more fascinating than psychology, and though it wasn't really something that would be of use to a soldier, Maes enjoyed it. University, after all, was meant to be enjoyed, and though Maes would never have had a chance at higher education without the military's aid, that didn't mean that he had to devote every waking moment to serving the establishment. He was allowed to enjoy his studies.

This term, he was taking a course in deduction and induction – the two types of reasoning of most use in criminal investigations. It was a difficult class, since its purpose was to teach one_ how _to think, instead of _what_ to think, but he was enjoying it. Maes wasn't as bright as some people – certainly he lacked Roy Mustang's fierce intelligence and analytical genius – but he was clever enough. His mind was adaptable, and he took quickly to the new concepts.

Deductive reasoning involved the formulation of a theory, which one then narrowed to a hypothesis. Through observation, one tested the hypothesis, and then either confirmed it or disproved it. It was a very scientific method of thinking, and it was the kind of reasoning that Maes knew Roy favoured. With his training in the science of alchemy, the younger cadet was used to thinking in abstracts. He had a philosophical streak that Maes lacked, and that often reared its head at the most inopportune times. Deduction suited him well.

Maes, however, favoured inductive reasoning. One made an observation that piqued the curiosity. From numerous observations, a pattern could be picked out. Then one formed a tentative hypothesis that could be explored, modified, and tested until a conclusion could be reached. It was a pragmatic approach, a hands-on way of approaching a mystery, and it appealed to Maes' practical nature.

When he had noticed that Roy was absolutely exhausted, that had been an observation. Further encounters with his enervated friend had made it plain that something was going on. Maes' first theory had been that he was sneaking out for some reason, but then he had found an employment pass in his friend's jacket pocket when Roy had had his back turned. From there, Maes had gone to his contact in the records office – a friendly desk sergeant who was all too happy to oblige a fellow veteran of the southern campaign – and learned the place of Roy's employment and the hours that he was permitted to be out.

Maes had threatened to visit him at work, and he was a man who followed through on his threats. So it was that on a Tuesday evening in late January, he bundled himself up in his military greatcoat, saluted the third-class cadets at the gate, and set off into town. He had toyed with the idea of hopping on the streetcar, or even flagging down a taxicab, but then he had decided to get a feel for just how far Roy was walking. It was almost three miles from the Academy gates to the seedy tavern on the wharf, which Maes covered in twenty-six minutes at a brisk march. It would have been a much longer walk for a civilian, of course, but Roy could certainly make it within the half-hour he allowed himself.

The bar itself was a disreputable-looking establishment practically on the waterfront. Maes stepped into a cloud of tobacco smoke and fumes of cheap gin. There arose a steady din from the inebriated river men, who sprawled around crude wooden tables or leaned uncouthly against the bar. Maes was hardly a blushing debutant: he had seen soldiers at their worst, and been one of them, too. Even by those standards, however, this was an unpleasant place. It was noisy, and malodorous, and the customers were rude and offensive.

"Hey, tin soldier!" one of them shouted thickly as Maes removed his greatcoat and navigated to the back of the room, where there was an unsteady-looking table vacant.

It took his eyes a minute to adjust to the murky atmosphere, and his ears about twice as long to adapt to the noise. Once this was achieved, however, he soon spotted his friend.

It wasn't hard: he was the only server in the place, and the customers kept him hopping. Dressed in the tatty trousers of his one civilian suit, which was of questionable providence, and one of the shirts Maes had given him when he first came to Central, Roy ran back and forth between the bar and the tables with such speed that Maes could not tell from one moment to the next which quarter of the room he might be found in. Cries of "You, boy!" and "Over here!" and "More whiskey!" cluttered the air, but somehow Roy managed to keep them all straight.

At least initially. As the clock on the wall creeped past ten and inched towards eleven, Roy's steps became less self-assured. His pace slowed, and he seemed to have more and more trouble keeping the orders straight. Once or twice the barman swore loudly at him, garnering hoots of entertainment and approval from the drunken audience. As he slowed down, Maes noticed something else, too. Whenever a table was vacated, or a nearly-empty glass shoved away, Roy would pick it up and drain the dregs quickly and surreptitiously.

The tavern served food, too, or at least what purported to be food, and more than once Maes spotted Roy sneaking a bit of half-gnawed bread or a slice of fried potato into his pocket, to be wolfed down when he thought no one was looking. Maes frowned in puzzlement. Why should Roy be hungry? It was true that first-year cadets were not permitted second helpings at meals, but the Academy hardly starved them.

By midnight, the business was slowing down, and Roy vanished more often into the back room, emerging with damp sleeves and dishpan hands whenever the barkeep shouted for him. Maes could see his energy flagging by the minute, and finally, as Roy shuffled past on his way back to what Maes assumed was the kitchen, he reached out and caught his sleeve.

"Can a guy get a little service around here?" he demanded.

"Of course, sir; I'm sorry, sir," Roy mumbled meekly. Then he turned and saw who had hailed him. He blanched. "Maes?"

The older cadet grinned enormously. "In the flesh."

"I can't talk," Roy said. "I have work to do..."

"Yeah, I know. Can I get a single malt?"

For a moment, Roy looked absolutely startled, but then he smiled. "Sure."

He moved towards the bar, and a minute later returned with a glass of whiskey. "It's not very good," he warned as Maes took a mouthful.

"You get off at two?" asked Maes.

"Yes..." Roy said hesitantly. "You're not staying 'til then, are you?"

"Why not?" Maes asked. "We can walk back to campus together."

"I don't want you to," Roy exclaimed. "I mean... I need... I..." He looked absolutely terrified. "Maes, you can't..."

"What's wrong?" asked Maes, frowning. "Are you trying to hide something else?"

The dark eyes widened and Roy's mouth twitched spastically. He was about to speak when someone on the other end of the room hollered for him. Roy flinched and flushed, as if he was ashamed to be seen like this, at the beck and call of maudlin drunks. Maes wasn't sure that he was comfortable with this perspective on his friend, either, but he tried to smile as Roy rushed off.

Maes sat there nursing his drink until the bartender called last orders and ejected the last few patrons. Then he waited in the street, biding his time until Roy should come out. Ten minutes turned to fifteen, and then to twenty. By oh-two-thirty, he was starting to wonder if his friend was ever coming out. He had scoped out the premises prior to entering, and he knew that there was no back door, but it occured to him now that Roy was an alchemist of no small skill, and could doubtless create a door if he needed one badly enough. Maes hurried around into the alleyway behind the tavern, and smiled wryly to himself. Roy had come up with a much simpler method of escape. There was a small window set high on the wall, probably opening on the restroom. It was open and swinging a little in the wind off the river. A damp footprint of a military boot was visible on top of a barrel beneath the unconventional exit.

Maes returned to his dormitory that night a little discouraged... but more amused. The mystery would not be solved tonight.

_discidium_

It was a Wednesday afternoon, but instead of drilling with the other cadets, Roy was waiting at the gates. The summons had arrived via the Major General's office that morning: Brigadier General Grumman wanted Cadet Fourth Class Mustang to take tea with him that afternoon. Since any such invitation from a senior officer was tantamount to an order, Roy was excused from his usual duties. Brig. Gen. Grumman was the officer who had sponsored Roy's application to the Academy. He was also Riza Hawkeye's grandfather.

Roy was nervous. He had not informed the general of his son-in-law's death, much less the fact that his granddaughter was living in poverty practically on his back doorstep. As he waited for the motorcar that was being sent to fetch him, Roy tried frantically to work out how to impart this news.

What he should have done was go to Grumman at once. He had wanted to, but Riza had begged him not to. Roy had understood her reluctance to throw herself upon the charity of someone she had not seen since she was five years old, especially since she did not seem to remember what a wonderful man Grumman was. Still, he wished that she would give in. He hated to see her in that wretched little garret, knowing that it was his fault because he couldn't provide for her.

The vehicle pulled up to the gates, and the second-year cadets waved it through. Roy swallowed hard, and climbed into the front passenger seat, glancing sidelong at the sergeant who was driving.

"Thank you, sir," he said softly.

"You're welcome," the NCO replied as he turned the vehicle around and took off towards the city.

Roy had never ridden in an automobile before, but at the moment he was too preoccupied to enjoy it. There was the matter of keeping Riza alive on the pittances they earned. More pressing at the moment was the question of facing her grandfather and trying to keep her secret as she wished him to. And, as always, the matter of the cipher...

_Confutatis maledictis, flammis acribus addictis, voca sua cum benedictus... confutatis maledictis..._

"_Voca me cum benedictus_," the NCO said.

Roy gasped a little. He hadn't realized that he had spoken aloud. He was so tired, despite the extra sleep he had had by Riza's gift five days ago. If he kept making stupid mistakes like this...

"It's _voca me_, not _voca sua_," said the driver.

"No it's... wait, you've heard it?" Roy gawked.

The man nodded, keeping his eyes on the road. "You see, _voca me_ is 'call me', and _voca sua_ is—"

"'Call her'," Roy whispered.

"Exactly. Do you like Mozart, then?"

"Who?" Roy said blankly.

"Mozart. That's from his requiem..." The enlisted man glanced at Roy as he rolled to a stop.

"It is?" Roy asked. He had known that the words on Riza's back were scraps of Latin verse, but it had never occurred to him to wonder who had written them. Perhaps that was important. At the very least, it was a new angle to explore. "Who is he? And... what's a requiem?"

"A death Mass," the soldier told him. "It's a tradition from a dead religion. Some people think Mozart was a practicing Christian, and some think it was an academic exercise. He was a composer, and he lived in South City almost a hundred and fifty years ago. His work isn't well known, but it's fascinating. The university orchestra sometimes performs some of his pieces."

An eclectic composer of Amestrian stock? Little known and possibly a follower of a creed that had been extinct for centuries? It was certainly something that no average alchemist would know.

"You said his name was Mozart?" Roy asked, trying to fix it in his mind.

The soldier nodded. "Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart."

It was as if several pieces of the impossible puzzle fell together at once. _Lupus_, _latrocinium_. Wolf, group or team or band or gang. Wolf gang. Wolfgang. Roy's heart sprung to his throat. "Please... what else can you tell me about him?" he implored desperately.

_discidium_

Brigadier General Leslie Grumman owned a handsome flat in the presidential district, as befitted a man of his rank. Most officers of similar station dwelt in large houses with space for their families and room to entertain dignitaries. Grumman had lived alone since his daughter's marriage, and he did not care for hosting sombre dinner parties, so he had no use for a larger place. His apartment with its large windows and its view of the river suited him just fine – when he was allowed to live in it.

His most recent promotion had come as the result of a mishap on the southern front, out of which he had come with his honour and most of his subordinates. The new rank had carried with it a desk job at Central Headquarters, and Grumman had hoped to stay clear of the battlefield for a time. The higher-ups had other ideas. He was to depart tomorrow on a three-month tour in the west, where Amestris was embroiled in conflict with Creda. His duties were mainly ornamental: he was essentially being sent as an ambassador of goodwill from the General Staff to the troops on the front lines. The expectation was that the quirky and spirited general would make speeches and raise morale and generally make a nuisance of himself. Grumman could not figure out why they didn't just send some damned politician, or at least a Brig. Gen. who had a little ambition.

When he had learned of the assignment, Grumman had made immediate arrangements to spend a little time with Roy Mustang. The sable-haired cadet was a special favourite of the general's. He had been the ward, so to speak, of Grumman's son-in-law, and the aging officer remembered him as an emaciated little boy with feral eyes and a terror of strangers. Now he was a quiet young man, filling out nicely and full of youthful ideals and grand dreams of a better tomorrow. In the atmosphere of jaded formality that characterized Central HQ, it was so refreshing to see someone brimming with such potential.

This afternoon, however, the boy was almost silent. Grumman had not seen him in months, for his schedule left little room for socialization. On the eve of deployment, he had decided to send for the boy and enjoy one of the privileges of his rank. To his dismay, the lad was not good company at all today.

"You've been staring at that biscuit for five minutes," Grumman commented wry. "Are you waiting for it to grow wings?"

Young Mustang stiffened and looked up. "I... no, sir. I'm sorry, sir. I was just... thinking..."

"About what?" asked Grumman. "It looks like something serious."

"It is," Roy said. "I mean... it's just a little awkward."

Grumman nodded sympathetically. "Sometimes it helps to get it off your chest," he said.

"Sir... I... I should have told you sooner," Mustang murmured. "But... but Hawkeye-sensei is dead."

The words fell like a pall over the table. Grumman set down his mug of tea. "Mordred?" he said. "Dead?"

The boy nodded. "It was a disease in his lungs. He bled to death, and..." He shuddered.

Grumman was torn between two priorities. The need to comfort the boy, who had lost a man who had been his alchemy teacher and his surrogate father fell to the wayside. "Where is Riza? Why didn't anyone tell me? She must come and live here, with me."

For an instant, anguish swam in the charcoal-coloured eyes, but then Mustang looked away. "S-she doesn't want to," he said softly.

"She has no choice!" Grumman protested. "She's only thirteen. Well, nearly. She's still a child, and she's not old enough to decide what's best. Where is she? I'll send for her at once."

The boy shook his head. "She doesn't want to live here, sir," he said firmly. "I promised... I _promised_ that I'd respect that."

"Where is she?" Grumman asked frantically. Was she well? Was she safe? His beloved granddaughter, orphaned by her one remaining parent... it was his place to take her in. It was his duty to care for her. His duty and his joy: more than anything he wanted to see his little sweetpea again. Though of course she was not so little anymore... "Where is she, Cadet?"

"Please..." Mustang whispered. "Please, I promised... don't make me disobey a direct order, sir."

Grumman wanted to take him by the shoulders and prise the truth from his lips, but the boy's desperate quietude gave him pause. Roy was obviously in anguish, torn between a promise made to someone he loved as much as Grumman did, and an obvious desire to come out with whatever was burdening him. And there was more. Grumman was leaving tomorrow. He could not take a child with him into a war zone, and Riza could not stay here alone. There was no time to make other arrangements. If she was safe and well, there was no reason to uproot her or to force her loyal boy to betray his confidence. The brigadier general closed his eyes.

"Is she safe?" he asked.

Mustang nodded. "I'm... she's... a family friend is looking out for her," he said, and whatever the truth was Grumman could see that he was equivocating. "She's safe. I made sure she was safe."

There was fervour in his voice, and that calmed the old gentleman more than even the truth might have. Grumman sighed softly. "Does she need anything? Is there anything I can do for her?"

Hesitation. He could almost hear Mustang's mind turning over as he weighed his options. At last, he moistened his lips with his tongue.

"Money," he said softly. "A little money. She needs new shoes a-and a winter coat. Please, sir..."

Grumman reached wordlessly into his billfold and pulled out three five-hundred-_sens_ notes – all the cash he had on his person. "I'll draw up a bank draft, too," he said. "She's my only family, my boy. Whatever she needs, I'm only too glad to—"

He stopped. The young man was staring at the money in his hand, almost rapturous. He got to his feet as if in a trance.

"T-Thank you, sir," he said softly. "Thank you... May I go now, sir? I'm not really in the mood for tea."

He was going to her, Grumman realized. His stomach lurched uneasily. Riza trusted this boy, who was not even of her blood, with the secret of her whereabouts, while effectively hiding from her own grandfather. How much had she changed from the sweet little girl he remembered?

"These friends she is staying with... are they good people?" Grumman asked.

Mustang nodded. "I think they are," he breathed, not meeting his superior's eyes.

"Run along, then," Grumman said. "They're not expecting you back at the Academy until five. Do you want me to call Sergeant Falman back to drive you?"

Mustang shook his head. "No, thank you, sir. I... I have to go. I..."

Grumman waved him off. "Go. Tell Riza I love her. When I come back to Central, I hope she'll consent to see me."

"I hope so, too, sir," Mustang whispered. Then he turned crisply on his heel and hurried from the apartment.

Grumman stood alone in the dining room, staring mutely at him. Riza did not want to see him. Why? What possible reason could she have for hiding from him?

For the first time in his fifty-eight years, the Brigadier General felt impossibly old and heartsick.


	6. Case Closed

**Chapter 6: Case Closed**

Riza squeezed her right hand with her left, trying to restore feeling to her fingers. By the end of the work day they were always numb and stiff. Unfortunately, sensation usually returned around the time Mr. Mustang started studying her back, in the form of agonizing cramps that settled deep into her joints and coursed up her wrists into her forearms. Even when she lay perfectly still, Riza fancied she could feel her hands moving and her fingers working as they twisted wire over and over and over again.

She sighed softly, and her breath came out in a puff of steam. The evening air was bitterly cold, and a fresh, slick layer of snow had settled over the pavement. Riza hugged her mother's old shawl around her shoulders. It was badly worn and not very warm, but if she folded it four times instead of two and wrapped it about her head she could keep the wind out of her ears, at least.

Riza looked over her shoulder at the darkened awning of the factory. She hated waking up each morning and dragging herself out of bed just to come here. The other girls were all much older than Riza: most were seventeen or eighteen, and one was twenty-six. Girls of Riza's age were mostly still in school. She didn't know if _any_ of them had a job... but it was no use lamenting the fact. She should be grateful that she had work, and that she could make a little money to contribute to her upkeep. And that was that.

It was six o'clock, and the streets were not yet dark, but Riza walked as quickly as her weary young legs would carry her. She had no desire to repeat her encounter with the drunk who had grabbed her and touched her in inappropriate ways. As she rounded the corner near her tenement, she stopped short. There was a soldier leaning against the wall of the building, his hat low over his ears and his greatcoat wrapped snugly around him.

"Mr. Mustang!" Riza exclaimed as quietly as she could, running up to him.

He raised his head and greeted her with a radiant smile. "Riza!" he said.

She looked around warily. "S-should you be here dressed like that?" she asked.

"I had to – I couldn't wait," he said. Riza realized abruptly that there was a large, flat box under his arm, and the twine handles of a big paper bag looped around his wrist.

"Get inside," she scolded under her breath, nodding at the tenement doors. It was dangerous for them to meet, for it was against the rules for him to sneak out like this, and might lead to his expulsion from the Academy if it ever came to light. Riza knew that it was dangerous for her, too. She was the custodian of a terrible secret that was coveted by the military and by other alchemists. If anyone ever found out the _purpose_ of these visits, she might be placed in jeopardy. She could not take the risk of allowing her father's research to fall into the wrong hands.

Roy held the door for her, and then followed her into the dark corridor. Riza was just about to run up the stairs when she heard the familiar creak of her landlady's parlour door. The old lady stepped out, seeing Riza first. She almost smiled, but then her eyes fell on Mr. Mustang.

"Soldier?" she cried. "You bring soldier here?"

"No, Mrs. Leung!" Riza said, shocked by the consternation on her landlady's face and the high-pitched horror in her voice. "No, I—"

"He bring _you_?" the old lady demanded. She wagged a finger viciously at Mr. Mustang. "She good girl!" she cried stoutly. "She not do anything wrong!"

"No, Mrs. Leung, it's me," Mr. Mustang said with remarkable calm, tilting his head up so that she could see his face under his hat. "It's just me."

Her narrow eyes widened. "_You_ soldier?" she gasped. She turned on Riza again. "You bring soldier here? Every night he come here? Wicked girl! _Wicked _girl!"

She looked ready to burst into tears – or to slap Riza across the face. But Mr. Mustang dropped his parcels and caught her wizened hands in his.

"Mrs. Leung, I'm not here to make trouble," he said softly. "I'm not, I promise. I'm not even a proper soldier: I'm just a cadet."

She stared at him. "Not... not send me away?" she asked.

"_No_!" Mr. Mustang cried mournfully. "No, of course not! I'm only a cadet. I'm just here to see Riza."

"Please, desert so far... not send me away," she implored breathlessly.

"No, I'd never do that," Mr. Mustang said. "I promise."

He released her hands, and she drew them back into the sleeves of her ragged silk robe. "You soldier..." she repeated, but it obviously meant something different this time. Her tone was suddenly soft and wondering, almost bewildered.

"I'm s-sorry," Riza stammered softly. "I should have told you..."

"Soldier," Mrs. Leung repeated, watching Mr. Mustang from the corner of her eye. Then she frowned. "You hurt her, I hurt you."

Mr. Mustang smiled sadly. "I'm glad," he said.

"Glad?" Riza breathed. He was _glad _to be accused of trying to hurt her? Glad to be threatened by her landlady? _Glad_?

He nodded. He drew out a handful of coins and held it wordlessly out to Mrs. Leung.

She looked at the money, and then at the young soldier, at Riza, and finally at the coins again. She shook her head. "No pay," she said. "I not say anything. Is secret. She good girl." She fixed Riza with a firm gaze. "You good girl."

Riza felt tears prickling in her eyes, though she could not understand why. Mr. Mustang was gathering his packages, and Mrs. Leung turned around and vanished into her parlour.

"S-she's a nice lady, really," Riza said.

"I know," Mr. Mustang agreed. "It's nice to know that... well..."

He couldn't finish saying it, but Riza didn't need him to. She understood: it was nice to know that she had Mrs. Leung watching over her when he was not around. Riza was glad of that, too. More importantly, she was glad to know that Mr. Mustang cared enough to worry about her.

They ascended to the garret, and Mr. Mustang locked the door. Then he set the box and the bag on the bed, took off his hat, and slid out of his greatcoat.

Riza's breath caught in her throat at the sight. She had not seen him in his uniform since they had come to Central. He cut a fine figure in the smoky blue jacket, the pressed blue trousers and the gleaming black boots. When Riza had been smaller, she had read novels about dashing young soldiers who fell in love with beautiful girls and had grand adventures. Just now, Mr. Mustang looked as if he might have stepped from the pages of one of those books, with his uniform and his dark hair and his alluring eyes and his enormous smile...

His enormous smile?

"Riza, I have money!" he cried, clearly unable to contain himself any longer. He took a fistful of bills from his pocket and pressed them into her hands. "Seven hundred and ninety _sens_!"

"Seven hundred and—"

"It was fifteen hundred, but look!" He whipped the top off of the long box, and pulled out a coat. It was of caramel-coloured wool with a fleece lining in the hood and cuffs. "Try it on: I hope it fits!"

He held it out for her, and Riza, too startled to disobey, slid her arms into it.

"It's second-hand," he admitted with a tiny hint of regret. "But it's whole and clean, and—"

"It's beautiful," Riza breathed, snuggling into the soft cloth and fumbling with the buttons. Mr. Mustang turned her around by the shoulder, and fastened them deftly. "But where did you get the money?"

He wasn't paying her any attention. He had the bag in hand now, and he pulled out a loaf of bread and a little jar of strawberry preserves. Then out came a box.

"The lady in the shop thought these would fit," he said. "I told her how old you were, and how tall, and she said they'd fit. They're not pretty, but they'll be warmer than those silly little things."

He nodded at her pumps, which she had bought almost eighteen months ago because they were the cheapest shoes in the dry goods store in her home town of Hamner. They had never been warm or comfortable, and they were now worn almost through, and they pinched her feet. Hoping against hope that she understood what Mr. Mustang was saying, Riza lifted the lid off of the box.

He had bought her a sturdy pair of brown leather shoes, with laces and a tongue. Riza sat down on the floor to try them on. "They're a little large," she said, wiggling her toes, which had not been so free in a long time. "But I'll grow into them," she added hastily, lest he should think her ungrateful. "Where did the money come from?

Mr. Mustang looked suddenly uncomfortable. "Riza, do you remember your grandfather?"

She regarded him blankly. Riza had the dimmest recollections of a grandfather – her mother's father, she thought. He had been in the military; she recalled that much. Beyond that, she knew nothing of him. Her father had never spoken of him, and as the years had passed Riza had all but forgotten that she had any such relation. When her father had died, Mr. Mustang had suggested that she might go to live with her grandsire, but Riza did not want that. All her life she had been at the mercy of a bitter and dictatorial old man. Her father's death had offered her a chance to have a life of her own, and she did not want to trade her new freedom for a fresh prison. True, her living quarters were poor, she relied upon Mr. Mustang for food, and she worked at a dull and difficult job, but at least she could to some extent make her own choices, instead of having some grandfather she did not even know making them for her.

"Your grandfather," Mr. Mustang repeated. "Brigadier General Grumman. He sponsored my application to the Academy... and I went to see him today."

"I don't want to live with him," Riza breathed. She could scarcely believe what she was hearing. She had trusted Mr. Mustang. Had he betrayed her?

"I know that," he said; "but I had to tell him that your father was dead. I couldn't keep that from him: he's a superior officer, and he's been good to me."

Riza could not fathom any relation of hers being good to anyone. Her father had not shown her any kindness since she was practically still a baby, and she remembered her mother's strange fits of rage. It was inconceivable that her grandfather should be any different.

"He wanted you to come and live with him, but he's leaving for the western front." Mr. Mustang mussed his hair with an absentminded hand. "I told him you were happy where you were."

"Did you tell him _where _I am, too?" Riza demanded, a little anger creeping into her tone. He had no right to do this! He had no right to turn her over to some hateful adult who might come and carry her away to wait upon him!

"Of course not. I wouldn't do that: I promised you. I just said that a friend was looking out for you, and when he asked if you needed anything, I said a coat and new shoes. Then he gave me the money and let me go." Mr. Mustang was watching her anxiously, waiting with bated breath to gauge her reaction.

A moment ago the coat had seemed so soft and wonderful. Now it felt like an unwanted weight on her back. Riza began to undo the buttons as well as her sore hands would allow. "I don't want charity," she said belligerently. "I thought you'd understand that."

"It isn't charity. He's your family. It isn't charity if it comes from family," Mr. Mustang said. "Ev-even sensei took things from your grandfather."

"He did?" Riza did not remember this, either, but after all, Mr. Mustang was older than she. Perhaps those days before her mother's death were more clearly defined in his mind.

Mr. Mustang nodded. "Besides, if I gave the money back he'd worry about you, and he might even try to look for you."

Riza narrowed her eyes to slits of suspicion. He was manipulating her, she realized: playing upon her convictions and emotions so that she would keep the coat and the shoes. But it was true that she _did_ need them so badly... and perhaps it _wasn't_ charity if it came from family. "All right," she said at last, a little charily. "I'll keep them."

"Good." Mr. Mustang picked up the bills, which had fluttered to the floor. "There's something else."

Riza waited, wondering what strange revelation would come forth now. The words Mr. Mustang spoke next were the most unexpected syllables he could have uttered, and the most welcome. They meant more to Riza than the money, or the coat, or even the shoes, for they signalled a small victory in the long, bitter and until this moment futile struggle in which the two young conspirators had been locked for months.

"I think I have a lead on your father's code."

_discidium_

A week passed. The discovery that the verse had been used in a requiem written by a composer who had lived in South City more than a century ago proved less useful than Roy had hoped. He did manage to find a copy of the music in the vast library at the National University, and he compared the original text to the words on Riza's back. The tattoo incorporated only fragments of the requiem, and there were subtle changes. Furthermore, there were some lines that did not appear in Mr. Mozart's composition, and where these might be found Roy did not know. Still, he had to be on the right track, for the clue of "Wolfgang" fit too perfectly to be a coincidence, and was too esoteric to be a red herring.

His visits to Riza were shorter now, for he needed to spend less time staring at the tattoo. He had it committed to memory, and was quite certain that he could draw it without reference. He did not dare to, of course, for the whole point of having it upon Riza's back was that it protected Hawkeye-sensei's research from falling into the wrong hands. Roy was not about to negate that by leaving copies strewn around a crowded barracks.

Though he had less need to see the tattoo, he still needed to see Riza. He had to reassure himself that she was well, he had to bring her food, and he needed her company. Quiet though she was, her very presence kept him grounded. She was a living reminder of his goals and of all that he still had to overcome if he ever hoped to achieve them. When he was with Riza, the unbearable struggle seemed a little less impossible.

Still, he was now creeping back to the Academy at four in the morning instead of half-past five. The extra ninety minutes of sleep was a godsend, and Roy no longer felt perpetually on the cusp of a nervous collapse.

He slid open the door of the barracks and slipped inside. Now that Mrs. Leung knew that he was a cadet, he was able to wear his greatcoat on the visits to Riza. While this mattered very little when he was in the tenement, it made the long walk home infinitely more comfortable. He stripped off the coat as he moved on tiptoe down to his cot.

"Where have you been?" a voice hissed from the darkness.

Roy coiled like a snake, every muscle tensing as he shied away from the shadowy silhouette sitting semi-prone upon his cot. In the orange light filtering from the lamps outside, he caught a glimmer of an eyeglass lens.

"_Maes_!" he yelped in a whisper that came out far too loud.

A low chuckle sounded from the bed. "Who were you expecting? Master Sergeant Wickersham?"

"Damn you, be _quiet!_" Roy drew nearer and hung his greatcoat on its hook. "You're not allowed in here after curfew!"

"And _you're_ not allowed out after oh-two-thirty," Maes countered. "Yet here we are, creeping along 'til four, and Cadet Mustang's not in bed."

Cadet Drosselmeyer, who slept at Roy's left, mumbled something in his sleep. Roy tensed and watched his dark form anxiously, but Maes did not seem to pay it any mind. He continued in a low, mildly amused tone.

"When you gave me the slip last week, I was really hurt, you know," he said, just sarcastically enough to let Roy know he was only teasing. "Here I'd used a whole night off so that we could walk home together – and you climbed out a bathroom window and took off without me!"

"I told you I didn't want you to come," Roy hissed, starting to remove his civvies. "It's none of your business where I work."

"No, but the brass would be fascinated to know that that's not all you're doing on your late-night forays. Tell me one thing: how do you get through the gates two hours after you're supposed to be back?" Maes sat up a little and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. Roy's eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and he could see that his friend was wearing regulation pyjamas, standard-issue sandals and a plaid dressing gown.

"Sergeant Mowatt likes me," Roy said. The doorwarden took the midnight watch on the front gate: the only shift that was not manned by second-year cadets. He was an amicable old soldier, and Roy quite liked him, as well. "He's turning a blind eye."

"How sweet of him," Maes said dryly. "Now, are you going to tell me what keeps you out an extra two hours every night – and incidentally makes you look like the walking dead – or am I going to have to try to tail you through the alleyways and public restrooms of Central until I find out myself?"

Roy was cornered. He knew his friend well, and Maes Hughes was not the type to give up on anything or anybody. Once he set his mind on something, the bespectacled tinker's son had a way of pushing until he achieved it. If he was determined to find out where Roy went when the shift at the bar was over, then find out he would. No matter how evasive and elusive Roy was, Maes would catch him eventually. The only hope, then, was to derail the older soldier's determination.

"It's personal," Roy said.

Maes grunted, clearly unimpressed. "Personal?" he echoed with good-natured scepticism.

"It's..."

It would be so simple to tell the truth: to say that he was working on his sensei's code. The confession was on the tip of Roy's tongue when one of the cadets on the other wall stirred so that his cot squeaked. The room was quiet, aside from the baseline whisper of rhythmic breathing and the sound of the handful of cadets who snored, but that meant nothing. Someone, of the ninety-nine people with whom Roy bunked, might at that very moment be lying awake, listening to the whispered conversation. Bad enough if someone overheard talk of sneaking back after hours. If they learned that Roy was dabbling in dangerous and largely unknown alchemy, there was no telling what repercussions there might be. The thought was a paranoid one, but not without a grain of rationality. Roy was well-versed in the history of his art, and there had been men killed for alchemical secrets before this. He would have gladly taken the chance with his own life in order to maintain his friendship with Maes Hughes, but he was not willing to risk Riza's. Riza's...

"It's a girl," Roy said, blurting out the first lie that came to mind. "After I'm done at the bar, I go to visit a girl. You know: like Eli."

There was a moment of stunned silence. "Like _Eli_?" Maes echoed. Eli Hughes was the third of his elder brothers; a glassgrinder and a consummate womanizer who had often tormented his younger brother with tales of his conquests.

"Exactly," Roy said, a little too emphatically. Drosselmeyer thrashed a little against his pillow, and then fell still again.

"Oh."

Another silence.

"Maes?" Roy ventured at last.

"Don't worry, you haven't killed me," Maes chuckled. "It just wasn't what I was expecting. I mean, you're only seventeen..."

"So?" said Roy. "Lots of guys my age have—"

"Stop right there!" Maes hissed. "Let's get one thing straight, buddy. I'm thrilled you've got a little... companionship, but I _don't_ want to hear about it! Okay?"

"Fair enough," Roy said. It seemed a little too good to be true, this sudden assertion that Maes didn't want to hear about it. 

Roy tested the waters again. "Now do you see why I want to keep it quiet? And why I don't want your company?"

"Believe me, _I_ don't want _your_ company while you're up to antics like that!" Maes laughed softly. "I'm sorry I pushed you so hard: I thought you were doing something else."

"What?" Roy asked.

"I don't know. Robbing filling stations or counterfeiting bank notes or hauling contraband on the docks or something," Maes said. "The way you were talking about money, I figured maybe you'd got yourself into trouble."

"Nope," Roy pledged. "Definitely not."

"All right." Maes adjusted his glasses with the first two fingers of his right hand. "Why didn't you just _tell _me?"

Roy could find no answer. After a moment's silence, however, Maes came up with one of his own.

"Embarrassed, right?" he said. "You don't have to be. I'm not going to think any less of you... unless she's a really ugly girl or something."

"She's not," Roy said truthfully, an image of Riza's corn-coloured hair and deep, mournful carmine eyes flashing briefly through his mind. "She's beautiful."

"Well, I hope you introduce me some day," Maes said, getting to his feet. "For now, I'm going to bed. You're shaving years off my life with these games, you know."

He punched Roy's shoulder amicably, and then shuffled out of the barracks. Roy stood frozen to the spot until he heard the door slide shut. Then his knees gave out and he sank down onto his narrow cot, relieved beyond telling. He couldn't believe it. On the spur of the moment, he had come up with the most useful lie he could have ever imagined.

The guilt, of course, came swiftly on the heels of the victory. He had lied to Maes, to his best friend, for no other reason than because he was himself afraid of the truth. What kind of a person was he?


	7. The Second Circle

**Chapter 7: The Second Circle**

The semester break began five days before Riza's birthday. The final exams took place the week prior to that, and they almost killed Roy. He had tried his best to keep up with his course work throughout the term, but the gruelling schedule of classes, drills, work and time poring over Riza's back left little time for extra study. Though the lectures ended two weeks before finals, Roy was still hard pressed for time. In the end, though, he came through it with his academic average more-or-less intact, and won the privilege of taking furlough during that fortnight.

Unlike the previous break, when he had travelled back to Hamner just in time to have his sensei die in his arms, this time Roy had nowhere to go. In any case, he could not leave. He needed his duty rations, since two people were living off of them. And he wanted to spend time in the library at the National University, researching the composer on whose work Hawkeye-sensei had based at least a portion of his code

The downside to staying was that Maes was not. The Hughes family, it seemed, were wintering in a small town outside of South City so as to be near Eli. The lascivious glassgrinder was tied down with military contracts for field goggles and rifle sights. Where once he had travelled the countryside bringing the gift of good eyesight to rural areas that would not otherwise have had access to an optician, he was now occupied in making war a safer and more accurate business. Roy admired that: better weapons meant less loss of life for the Amestrian military.

Maes departed by train on the evening after the last exam. Roy saw him to the station, for though he was not taking a proper furlough he was allowed to come and go as he pleased for the duration of the holiday, provided that he was present for reveille and the morning inspection of the lines. The farewell was brief and falsely jocund: Maes was apprehensive about seeing his family, for his eldest brother Benjamin was once again unwell. Ben had delivered Maes into the world, cutting him from the womb of his mother, and Roy knew that Maes held himself at least partly responsible for the demons that plagued his brother. Ben had long ago developed a habit of drinking to forget his agonies, and it had caught up with him around the time that Maes and Ira had enlisted. From Riza, who was oddly enough a close friend of Ben's, Roy knew that the woodsman had tried to forego alcohol and had worsened because of it. Whatever Maes faced in South City, Roy was afraid it might not be pleasant.

With his friend gone, Roy had nothing to distract him from the task at hand. On the first day of his holiday, he slept for almost six uninterrupted hours – longer than he had since before his sensei's death. Then he gathered his notebook full of botched attempts at untangling Latin phrasing, and removed to the University, where he found a quiet corner in the all-but-deserted library and set to work, leaving only just in time to make it back to the Academy for supper. From there he went to work, and then to Riza, returning to bed at four. He woke for oh-six-thirty reveille, attended inspection, and then went back to bed for a few hours before making his way back to the University again. In this way, three days passed.

And what productive days they were! Further reading on the composer bore little fruit, but further reading on his requiem itself proved invaluable. The verse was not original: it had been largely taken from a thirteenth-century traditional piece. This discovery was exciting, for the lines on Riza's back that Roy had not been able to find in Mozart's requiem were to be found in the older text, and a scant few lines of Mozart were not from the older version. By comparing these, Roy was able to come up with a simple recursive algorithm. Working with that, he discovered that a basic polyalphabetic substitution yielded a set of instructions for a geometric calculation that, while interesting, seemed to have even less to do with flame alchemy than did the words of the requiem. A month ago, he might have been discouraged and disheartened by this discovery. Now, he knew better. His sensei had poured a phenomenal amount of effort into this code: it was obvious that there was a second circle of encryption. He had only to solve it.

On Riza's birthday, Roy went to see her after the tavern closed, as always. She was waiting for him, ready to disrobe. As soon as he entered the room Roy could see that his smile disarmed her. She always seemed shocked when he smiled. He supposed that was because Hawkeye-sensei had hardly ever shown such signs of happiness.

"Happy birthday!" he said, hoping that an explanation would help to put her at ease.

Riza was startled. "You remembered!" she exclaimed.

"Of course I did! You're a teenager now: congratulations!"

The words fell flat in the dingy little berth. Riza did not look happy, and Roy suddenly understood why. Here she was, thirteen years old and already a woman in practice if not in body. Her parents were dead, her childhood home repossessed for want of a few hundred _sens_ to pay the taxman. She lived alone in a tenement room in the very worst quarter of the city. Her nights were spent half-naked under the scrutinizing eye of an aspiring alchemist. Her days she passed in a dreary factory, slaving away to produce useless gewgaws that would be bought by privileged girls much her own age, but far less burdened. Riza had been betrayed and assaulted by her own father, and because of that she could not trust even her loving grandsire. This birthday was not an occasion for joy: it was an ugly reminder of what her life might have been... what her life should have been.

Perhaps Riza sensed his the wave of pessimism, or perhaps she was trying to shake off one of her own, for she forced a small smile. "At least this year will be better than last year," she ventured hopefully.

Roy chuckled a little nervously. "I suppose that's true," he allowed. "You've accomplished so much this year, though. You left home, and moved to Central, you've learned how to live on your own, and you got a job. You're earning money now – and don't forget about your diploma. _I_ haven't got a school diploma."

Aside from the last point, none of those things were on the list of accomplishments that a thirteen-year-old should _have_ to make, but the fact was that Riza had done it, and she should be proud of it.

Riza nodded. "I did do all that, didn't I?" she said softly.

"I'm impressed," Roy confirmed. He held out the package he had brought with him. "This is for you."

Riza favoured him with a tiny smile, and then opened it. She looked up at Roy and shook her head reproachfully. "You shouldn't do things like this," she said sternly.

"Don't be silly! It's your birthday."

"It's a waste of money," Riza declared quietly.

"I saved my tips from work," Roy told her, a little defensive. "Besides, I thought you would like something new to read."

Riza fingered the spines of the books. Roy had found her two of the gothic romances that she had loved to read with Doctor Bella, the kind physician who had cared for them when they were children. "They're beautiful," said Riza. "Thank you, Mr. Mustang."

"You're most welcome," he said. Then he held out the other package. "Maes got these in the mail a few weeks back. From Gareth and Benjamin."

There was a pair of dainty kid gloves lined with swansdown: durable and warm, and pretty. Roy was so glad that Maes' second-eldest brother, who was a journeyman glover, had sent them. Riza needed gloves badly, though not quite badly enough to justify spending money on them. These were better-crafted than any she could find in Central. From Benjamin, who was Riza's especial friend, there was a little coral necklace and a pair of dainty coral earrings.

"I haven't got pierced ears," Riza mused, more to herself than to Roy. But she held the necklace up to her white throat and studied her reflection in the broken shard of mirror that leaned on the top of her clothes-press.

"You look beautiful," Roy ventured. "A-and you can always _get_ your ears pierced."

"Maybe someday," Riza told him practically. "When I'm older." She set down the jewellery and the books on the table, and tucked her new gloves into the pocket of her coat. Tears shone in her carmine eyes. "I d-didn't think I'd have a birthday this year," she confessed. "There wasn't one last year."

She meant that her father had been too ill and self-absorbed to bother celebrating it, Roy thought angrily. He had respected his sensei, almost worshipped him, and had loved him in place of the father that he could not remember. All of that had been shaken to the core by the revelation of Riza's marred back. That the man he had trusted, and revered, and thought of as a genius and a wonderworker could so exploit his only child sickened Roy. It had taken a great deal of discipline to even bear to look at Riza's tattoo, but he had done it, and he had decoded the first circle of the cipher. The secrets were in his grasp, and then it would be over. Then they could forget that this had ever happened.

"A-are you ready?" Riza asked, unbuttoning the man's shirt that she wore around her slender torso.

"Oh," Roy said flatly. "Not tonight." He didn't need to see it tonight.

Riza frowned. "But if you don't study it, you'll never..." She stopped, and seemed to flush a little. "You need to solve it."

"I've already solved part of it," Roy admitted. Riza looked almost disappointed, and suddenly he felt remorseful. It was _their_ struggle, after all, not his alone. She wanted to help him, to contribute to the pursuing of his dreams for a better world, and at the moment all she could do was let him study her back. "I could certainly do with another look," he said. "If you don't mind..."

"I don't," she said quietly. And for the first time, she really sounded as if she meant it. She removed the shirt and lay down, and he sat next to her.

The patterns, the lines, the arches. The delicate parabola of the serpents' intertwining tails... suddenly the equation clicked into place. The geometry problem from the first half of the code could be applied to the alignment of the shapes on Riza's back...

With a small noise of exhilaration, Roy snatched up his notebook and began to lay out hasty calculations.

_discidium_

He was so close to the answer. Mr. Mustang had told her on no uncertain terms that he was close: he had already solved one circle of the cipher, and the next one, which had something to do with the orientation of the various geometrical figures on her back, would soon be cracked. Riza dreaded that day.

It was strange. Two months ago – one month – one _week_ ago, she had been anxious for it all to end. For Mr. Mustang to solve the puzzle and break the code, so that the late-night examination of her flesh could end. So that she no longer had to bare her body to him. So that, most importantly of all, she could finally be free of the burden of her father's research and the horrible responsibility that went with it. Every night she had prayed that he would find what he needed, that he would crack the enigma, that he would unravel the mystery.

Now, when he was so close, she wished that he would never solve it, for when he did she knew that he would not need her anymore.

Mr. Mustang was an alchemist, and as an alchemist he had no use for her except as the crucible of her father's work. When he was finished studying her back, he would no longer have need of her. He would not want her anymore. He would cast her off, as her father had – or not quite. Because he was an honourable man, Riza knew he would take care of her as long as she needed him.

He would continue to help pay for her upkeep, but surely the visits would stop. Why would he waste his time coming to see her, if she had no secrets to share with him?

A tiny part of her mind protested that he did care about _her_, about Riza Hawkeye the individual. After all, he seemed to worry about her. He had remembered her birthday and bought her a gift. He was kind to her, considerate and generous. Surely that was not all because of the tattoo... and yet she remembered how he had left her, gone away when she was ten years old, without even saying goodbye. He had not answered her letters, nor even written to her father. Only after she was marked with Mordred Hawkeye's research did Mr. Mustang return. In everything he did for her, therefore, there was this ulterior motive: he wanted her father's research, and he was willing to do anything in exchange for it.

He leaned over her now, scrawling hasty notes and mumbling to himself. Riza was lying with her face in her pillow, and she could not see his expression, but she could imagine it. It would be that intense, almost manic look that reminded her of her father, of the light of eager madness that had overtaken him while he worked on his research. Riza could almost feel the keen slate eyes boring into her back, sucking in the lines of the tattoo like nourishment.

"Oxygen..." he muttered. "But oxygen doesn't burn. _Pure_ oxygen doesn't... there must be more to it than that..."

Riza heard his pencil scratching as he worked through logarithms and calculations that even with her firm grounding in mathematics were beyond her comprehension. Riza remembered her father once saying that Mr. Mustang had a rare head for figures. A genius, she thought, though Mordred Hawkeye would never have used those words. Her father had never been one to lavish praise: the only attention one could get from him was negative.

"It doesn't make _sense_!" Mr. Mustang snarled. "There must be something missing. I must have made a mistake... I _can't _have made a mistake, Riza! I checked it six times!"

She wondered if he wanted her to speak.

"It's not logical," Mr. Mustang went on. "Pure oxygen doesn't burn. You have to mix it with something. Something combustible, like carbon or sodium or..."

There was a silence, a long and leaden silence. When Mr. Mustang spoke again, his voice was flat as if the power of his epiphany had robbed him of the strength to speak.

"Hydrogen."

_discidium_

It was simple. Absurdly simple. Ridiculous in its elegance. Roy had heard before that fire, which was not a compound but an energy, could not be controlled by alchemy, any more than light or heat or sound could. He had foolishly thought that his sensei had found some way around that fundamental law of nature. This was not the case. You could not manipulate fire with alchemy, but you _could _manipulate something else: the fuel that formed it.

"Flame alchemy" was a misnomer. What it was, in fact, was _air_ alchemy. The instructions hidden in the geometric design of Riza's tattoo made that plain. To form and mould and control the fire, one altered the concentration of covalent gasses in the air. Hydrogen to burn, oxygen to feed the flames. Inert gasses were needed to form a buffer around the fire, or else it would burn itself out or ignite the air. The warning there was clear. The array itself was to work with the air, not the fire. Send the air forth, and the flames would follow.

To create the flame, all that was needed was a spark. Sensei's words spoke of a flint and steel, and Roy remembered the set his teacher had always carried. With it he had set candles ablaze or shot tendrils of flame into a fireplace. With it, he had created the pillars of blazing glory that he had shown Roy on the day that he had turned him unceremoniously out of the house, without even the chance to bid farewell to Riza. A spark...

He would need a safe place to practice. Perhaps there was a quarry nearby, or a cave, or some place where he could experiment without posing a risk to anyone or anything. When Maes returned, Roy would ask for his help in finding such a spot. Maes had a singular talent for gleaning the lay of the land, and after the deception concerning Riza, Roy wanted his friend to know that he was still valued and needed.

Only two problems remained. The second body of text that he had decoded gave no instructions for controlling the fire, save the bit about noble gasses. And there was one line that made no sense. It read _aecabedgsharp, _or, as Roy divided it:

_Aec a bed g sharp_.

Clearly, something was still missing.


	8. Playing With Fire

**Chapter 8: Playing With Fire**

Maes Hughes wrinkled his nose so that his specs crept up towards his eyebrows. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked, the picture of wary scepticism.

Roy surveyed the empty field with its thin dusting of crystallizing snow. Maes had found it, and it was perfect. The damp would keep the grass from catching alight, and it was far enough from the city that they were unlikely to be interrupted by any curious bystanders. It was perfect.

"I have to try it," he said. "I can't wait anymore."

"But you said you've only decoded part of your sensei's notes..." Maes hedged warily.

"Yes," Roy allowed. "But it's the important part. I know how it works now, I'm just not sure how to control it."

Maes closed his eyes. "Let me get this straight," he said. "You're going to experiment with fire without knowing how to control it?"

"I think I understand how," Roy said.

"How comforting."

"No, really, I do," Roy told him. "See, hydrogen and oxygen exist in normal air as covalently bonded atomic pairs. They're both volatile, but nitrogen and the noble gasses like helium, neon and argon aren't. Those elements are stable, and they won't burn. So if I make a shell of inert gas, and feed a column of hydrogen and oxygen into it, then—"

"Whoa, stop, I beg you!" Maes laughed. "That's way over my head. I'm just a normal human being: alchemy jargon's a whole 'nother language to me. You're the circus freak. Just make sure you know what you're doing, 'cause I solemnly promised Gareth that I wouldn't die in a farmer's field, cooked alive by a crazy cadet."

"If you don't trust me you can leave," Roy said coolly. He wasn't about to tease Maes back, for the moment was too serious. Strangely, he didn't feel cowed by the other boy's needling. This moment was too important for any inkling of self-doubt. If he could produce something – _anything_ – today, then the efforts of the last three months would have meaning. His struggles, Riza's travails, they would finally bear fruit.

He took off his gloves and his hat, and drew a small silver cylinder out of his pocket.

"What's that?" Maes asked.

"I have to draw a circle with something," Roy said. "Since it needs to have contact with my hand and with the air, the best thing to do is to put it on my skin." He used his teeth to remove the cap.

"A _lipstick_?" Maes said incredulously, as Roy began to sketch the array onto the back of his left hand with the wedged tip of bright red grease paint. "I didn't realize that alchemy was so glamorous."

"Do you have a better idea?" Roy challenged. "Chalk wouldn't take, pencil doesn't mark skin, and if I used pen I wouldn't be able to wash it off. Lipstick is perfect."

"Did you get it from your mysterious lady friend?" asked Maes.

"I thought you didn't want to hear about her," Roy countered. He put away the lipstick. "Did you find a lighter?"

"You said it didn't matter if it had kerosene, right?" Maes said by way of response, holding out a cheap tin specimen with a narrow flint wheel.

"Perfect," Roy said. He took it in his right hand, and stood with both arms out in front of him. He had never performed a transmutation in such a ridiculous position. He felt disoriented, without the firm physical contact with the circle. 

He wondered if he should have drawn a mirror image, but then he focused his attention upon it, and he could feel the crackle of alchemical energy. It was as if his body, being so marked, had become a vessel of power. His heart palpitated nervously, and he exhaled to calm himself.

"Stand back," he said. Maes didn't wait for a second warning, but retreated post-haste to a position some ten yards behind his friend. Roy closed his eyes, trying to feel the molecules around him. Matter, matter everywhere... he was breathing it. It lapped at his skin. Nitrogen, oxygen, hydrogen. Trace amounts of argon, of neon, of helium.

The transmutation began. There was no surge of raw power, no crackling of blue light. It was a gentle, slow rearrangement of the freely floating elements in the air. In swept nitrogen, forming a column. A bubble, Roy imagined. A hollow sphere. Then into it he mentally injected a stream of oxygen and hydrogen. Hydrogen was flammable, deathly flammable, and oxygen was nourishment for the fire.

When he thought he was ready, he flicked the thumb of his right hand against the flint, sending a shower of sparks from the lighter. He braced himself for the explosion of heat and beauty.

Nothing happened.

Roy tried again. Another shower of sparks, and nothing. Frustration surged to the surface, and broke his concentration. He could feel the steady outflow of spagyric energy vanish, leaving him empty. It was a moment of bathos that seemed to shrivel his heart and his enthusiasm into a wasted prune of bitterness. He had been so _sure_ that he could do it.

"That's it?" Maes said, nonplussed.

_That's it_, Roy thought. Then he frowned, a cold glow of determination in his sloe-coloured eyes. He could do this, damn it. He wasn't just an average alchemist. He had mastered every basic concept he had ever been taught by his sensei – and one or two much more advanced tricks that Hawkeye had thought too far above him. He could do it. He could.

Again, he focused his mind and his strength into the transmutation. It was unlike any other that he had ever attempted, for it had to be continuous. A steady, controlled manipulation as he sent forth the catalyst spark...

Nothing.

"Maybe you need the rest of his notes," Maes suggested softly.

"Maybe," Roy allowed, staring down at his garishly painted hand. He was making the air move: he knew that much. But either he wasn't doing it right, or he was still missing some vital instruction. Clearly further study was needed. He put the spent lighter into his pocket with a sigh. "Let's just get back," he said flatly. "If we don't leave now, we'll be late for supper."

_discidium_

Captain Casperia was talking about the conflict in the Ishbal region. Since the course was supposed to focus on the science of modern warfare, the instructor was a bit far from the topic. What he was saying wouldn't be testable, then, and so Roy did not pay it any particular attention. He had another agenda.

He had drawn his sensei's array on his palm, this time using an eyebrow pencil obtained from the same dusty apothecary where he had bought the lipstick. He'd got a few odd looks from the druggist when he came to the counter with a fistful of cosmetics and a wooden comb. His old comb had been broken by Cadet Garland, a real joker who was the bane of shower-time. As for the paints... they worked well.

The feeling was different with the circle on the palm. It seemed to give it less exposure to the air. Roy closed his eyes and focused. His goal was to send out a thin column of nitrogen. His mind sifted through the air, sending unwanted elements bouncing away. It took an enormous amount of concentration to sort the hundreds of thousands of molecules. Oxygen to the left, hydrogen to the right. Mix in inert gases for safety, but keep the nitrogen pure. A narrow cylinder that lengthened and moved slowly, slowly down to the front of the lecture hall, where Captain Casperia was railing on about the red-eyed rebels who were defying the military's attempts to bring order to the eastern region.

Roy knew that he was too slow. Moving the air like this, he would never achieve the delicate arcs of flame that his sensei had managed with such apparent ease. Maybe a thick pillar of flame, if he used oxygen and hydrogen where now he had nitrogen, but never the acrobatic fire that he remembered Hawkeye-sensei producing. Still, everyone had to begin somewhere, and this was the best way he knew how to do it.

"—agree with Colonel Fessler. They have to be put in their place! Order must be maintained. It's essential for the wellbeing of all Amestris that—"

He was cut off in mid-sentence by a startled snort. His beady eyes whipped from side to side, trying to identify the source of the jet of air that had suddenly rushed into his face, ruffling his overgrown eyebrows. One or two cadets snickered at his expression of discomfiture, but only one smirked in satisfaction.

Roy Mustang was learning how to control the very atmosphere that he breathed.

_discidium_

He still came to her every night, but his visits were brief, and soon they would cease altogether.

Riza knew that Mr. Mustang was tired of staring at her back, trying to decode the third circle of the cipher. He seldom lingered for more than an hour, now, and most of that hour he spent talking to her, either asking for details of her day, or offering his. Riza wondered if he knew how much she appreciated this attention. It seemed almost as if they were truly friends again... but sooner or later the moment would come when she had to remove her shirt and lie on her belly, and then she was once again nothing more than a canvas. A worthless scrap of paper whose only value was that of the information printed upon it.

It never occurred to Riza that this was not at all how Mr. Mustang saw her at those times. She would never have guessed, scarred as she was by her father's uncouth treatment of her, what went through the young soldier's head each time she spread herself out before him. The moment of horror, when he realized each night as if for the first time what her father had done to her. The admiration that he owed to the valiant young spirit who had not only submitted herself to this atrocity, but was still fiercely loyal to the monster who had used her so abominably, protecting his research with her life and her honour. And the uneasy undercurrent of self-loathing, because he knew in his heart of hearts that if he had not gone away, Mordred Hawkeye would never have been able to do this... and worse, that by studying the array like this he was validating his sensei's sin and perpetuating the dehumanization of the brave and beautiful young woman before him.

Riza imagined none of this. The brief examinations that now replaced the hours of tormented study were to her purely academic. He was studying her from a fresh perspective each time, looking for something that he might have missed. He had almost all of the information he needed. When he had no further use for the tattoo, he would have no further use for her.

And yet the days passed, and he made no sign of discontinuing his nightly pilgrimage. It was all most strange.

_discidium_

Maes watched as Roy drew the sigil on the back of his hand. It had been almost a fortnight since they had come out here the first time. Now, Roy insisted that he was ready to try again.

Maes thought this was a bad idea. He had a layperson's natural mistrust of alchemy, and the fact that his best friend was a practitioner of the mysterious science did little to allay that. 

The idea of doing alchemy with something as dangerous as fire... well, Maes had never been this far out of his comfort zone.

"I've got it this time," Roy said. "I've been practicing."

"What? Where?" Maes asked. "_When_?"

"Not with the fire, just with air," said Roy, rolling his eyes a little. "I practice in class, at meals, anytime I can. It's easier in closed rooms, where there's no draft, but I can do it outside, too."

"With air? I thought you said this was flame alchemy?"

"I tried to explain before," Roy said. "The fire is just a by-product. What I'm really doing is manipulating the concentration of different gases in the air..." He paused, taking in Maes' blank expression. "Never mind. You're going to see flames today."

He held out his hands. He looked a little absurd with his arms extended straight in front of him, a lighter in one hand while the other bore the circle. Maes didn't bother to step back: he didn't doubt that this would be the same spectacular failure that he had witnessed last time.

Roy closed his eyes briefly, visibly centring himself. Then he lifted his lids, staring ahead with alarming intensity. Suddenly, Maes felt a breeze, though the day was calm. Air was moving and shifting. The cadet almost fancied he could feel the roiling chaos being brought to order – what his friend was surely feeling, for he was the one who was doing it. Then Roy's thumb moved to the wheel of the lighter.

There was a glow of gold and a cacophonous thunder of small explosions. An enormous ball of fire appeared before Roy, roiling and surging wildly. There was more wind, wild and uncontrolled this time. And then nothing but breathless silence and the sharp stink of burnt wool and scorched hair.

Maes removed his glasses from his face, wiping them with his handkerchief. When he put them back on, he was pleased to see that Roy was still standing, though there was a large burn across the front of his military greatcoat and the fine fringe at his hairline was almost gone. Maes braced himself, trying to think of something comforting to say.

To his astonishment, Roy threw back his head and laughed victoriously. "I did it!" he whooped. "Maes, I did it!"

Maes stepped forward, and drew him into a bracing embrace, clapping him on the back. "You did it!" he agreed breathlessly. His pulse was still pounding, but Roy's joy was infectious.

Cadet Mustang pulled back and looked sheepishly at his left hand. The knuckles were burned and already starting to blister. "I obviously need more practice with the proportions, though," Roy said. "I think I had too much hydrogen, and I need a thicker buffer between the volatile gases and my body..."

Maes could see the cogwheels turning with the precision of a thirty-jewel watch. Roy had solved yesterday's problem, and had proved it spectacularly. Now he was already working on the next one. His brow furrowed in thought, and his eyes clouded over slightly as he stopped focusing on his surroundings, but he was still grinning enormously.

He'd probably stop smirking when he had to explain to the commissary how he had ruined his greatcoat, Maes thought with wry amusement.


	9. Biting Back

**Chapter 9: Biting Back**

The officer behind the commissary counter fingered the singed wool critically. Standing at attention and fully aware of how ridiculous he looked with his damaged hair and the long, glossy burn on his forehead, Roy awaited his fate with what dignity he could muster.

"How did this happen?" the lieutenant asked.

"It was an unfortunate mishap, sir," Roy replied crisply. It wasn't much of an answer, but it had the benefit of being true.

"What kind of mishap?"

"It's difficult to say, sir." His left hand was throbbing, and he could still smell the acrid reek of burnt hair.

"_Try_," said the lieutenant with just a hint of sarcasm.

Roy said nothing. How could he explain that he had been experimenting with dangerous and coveted alchemy? His pursuits had to be kept secret until he was proficient enough – and wealthy enough – to take the State Alchemist's examination. From his discussions with Brigadier General Grumman, Roy knew that his sensei's techniques were all but a surefire guarantee of licensure, and with an examination fee of fifteen hundred _sens_, he had to be damned sure of the result before he took the test.

The lieutenant rolled his eyes. "Look, Cadet, I remember what it's like. If it was a dare gone wrong, just say so. There's no use trying to lie about it."

"It was a dare gone wrong, sir," Roy said, too hastily. "I'm sorry, sir."

The man looked at the file that he had pulled. An immaculate white chart, unmarred by any notations, bore Roy's name and service number. He had not yet needed any replacement garments, for he was exquisitely careful with his uniform. "Thank you for your honesty, Cadet," said the commissar. He picked up a pencil and started to fill in the first bar of the record. "The fine for a greatcoat is five hundred _sens_," he said. "Do you want to pay now, or in instalments?"

Roy swallowed hard. Five hundred _sens_? That was almost two weeks' earnings, wages and Academy _per diem_ combined. He and Riza were only just making ends meet as it was: he couldn't afford that. "I... I don't have the money, sir," he said hoarsely, unable to articulate the other fears cascading through his mind.

"You should have thought of that before you took some stupid dare," the lieutenant said coolly. "From the look of things you're lucky you still have eyebrows." He reached under the counter and produced another sheet. "We can garnish your _per diem_ if you like, or you can take work details to earn the money."

"Work details?" Roy echoed. Cadets in the upper years had duty rotations that were required as part of their training, and he knew that some took on extra ones to earn additional spending money. He hadn't realized that the same option was open to first-years.

"There's yard detail from twenty hundred hours to twenty-three hundred," the lieutenant said. "That pays fifty _sens _a week. Kitchen detail for an hour at each meal, seventy-five _sens_ a week. Latrine detail from eighteen hundred hours to twenty hundred hours, one hundred _sens_ a week."

All three assignments were familiar to Roy. They were usually used in a punitive manner, to punish misdemeanours that went beyond the usual disciplinary measures. He had not realized that there was remuneration attached to them. After some negotiation it was agreed that he would take kitchen duty at breakfast and lunch, for fifty _sens_ a week, and latrine duty during the supper hour. Roy was sorely tempted to take the yard detail as well, and to quit his hated job at the tavern. Certainly, the work paid less, but it was three hours, not six, and he wouldn't have had to leave the Academy grounds.

It was, ironically, the latter point that decided the matter. If he wasn't allowed to leave to go to work, then he would be unable to visit Riza during the week. He had no further need to study the tattoo, for he felt certain that he knew enough from what he had decoded that the third circle of encryption could remain uncracked for the time being. Now that Riza was working, she was buying food out of her own wages and she was no longer reliant upon what he brought her. There was no solid excuse for going to see her, and yet Roy knew that he had to. She was a part of his life that he had sacrificed once before, to his detriment and to hers. He was not going to let her go again.

So he decided to keep the job at the _Dockman's Arms_, as unpleasant and exhausting as it was. His work details, which would pay the fine on the greatcoat, and then be added to his weekly income from the Academy, were slated to begin on Monday. That night, he told the barman that he could no longer start work before half past eight – news which was not favourably received, and which cost him a twenty _sens _pay cut. Roy couldn't bring himself to care. The job would soon be nothing more than an excuse to leave campus.

_discidium_

Riza was reading by the light of a sputtering candle when Mr. Mustang rapped on her door that night. She sat up, smoothing her father's old shirt, and bade him enter.

"Hey, Riza," he said softly, coming in and closing the door with care. "How was work?"

Terrible, she thought. Wretched, dull, painful. "All right," she told him. He worked so hard to support her, on top of his studies and his efforts to decode her father's research. Even though she knew he was only doing it so that he could have access to her back, she had no right to complain. "I was just... it's a good book."

It was one of the volumes that he had given her for her birthday. Riza saw the spark of recognition in his eyes, and was delighted when he smiled. "I'm glad you like it," he said.

She looked up at him, wanting to say something sweet and charming, but all thoughts of elocution died as she got a good look at him.

"Your hair!" Riza cried, springing to her feet and reaching up to pluck gently at his ravaged fringe. To her horror, she saw that there was a broad, glossy burn on his brow. "What happened?"

To her amazement, an enormous grin spread across his face. "I did it," he said breathlessly. "Your father's alchemy – I did it!"

"Oh."

The word fell flat as Riza's world deflated around her, but Mr. Mustang did not seem to notice. He was still talking animatedly. "It's really very simple," he said. "Well, simple in _theory_. It's going to take a lot of practice to get it right. I think my problem's the proportion of gases that I'm using. See, I had too much hydrogen, so it got out of control. That's how I singed my hair, and the rest."

Riza cried out in empathetic pain as he gestured a little with his left hand. The knuckles were blistered and red. She clutched the injured appendage, and stared at it in dismay. "Your poor hand..." she mourned.

He laughed a little. "It's all right," he said. "It's not important. Do you understand, Riza? I did it! I solved it!"

Mr. Mustang looked ready to float away on a cloud of triumphant bliss. His eyes were snapping with a joyous fire, and his voice was taut with delight. "All I need to do is practice," he said. "Once I've learned how to shape the flame, how to control it, then I'll be a sure shot for the State Alchemist exam!"

"And then you'll be able to make a difference," Riza said breathlessly, momentarily borne away by his excitement. "You'll have the power to change things for the better."

"Exactly," he said emphatically. "And I never could've got this far without you! Thank you, Riza! Thank you so much!"

Her brief exultation ebbed away. He was finished with her. After tonight, these visits would end. He had no further use for her: anything that he did for her now he would do out of charity, nothing more. He had a good heart, and he would not leave her to her own devices... but he did not need her anymore. Riza cast her eyes down.

"Y-you ought to soak your hand," she said, moving to the clothespress and pouring cold water into her washbasin. She sat on the bed, cradling the porcelain dish in her lap, and reached for Mr. Mustang's wrist.

He sat obediently beside her, and let her slip his hand into the water. She focused her gaze and her energy on it, scooping up fluid with her own small hand and trickling it over the burns.

"I know how hard it's been for you," Mr. Mustang said, his voice a little more subdued but still suffused with triumph. "I can't thank you enough. Your father's research is going to allow me to achieve my goals. I'll be able to help protect Amestris, to keep the people safe with my own hands."

Riza nodded mutely, gnawing the inside of her cheek and striving valiantly to hold back her tears. She didn't understand why she felt this way. She had known all along that this time would come. Now that it was here she should be able to accept it with grace. Instead, she felt as if her heart would break.

"You'll see," Mr. Mustang went on. "I can make things better. I know that I can. All I need is the chance, and now that I'll be able to become a State Alchemist, I'll get that chance. Riza, can you imagine a future like that?"

"A future where everyone can live in happiness," Riza whispered. The words were familiar. She had said them on the day of her father's funeral, wondering aloud whether such a future was possible. Whether she could invest her heart and soul in dreams of such a time. Mr. Mustang had told her then that she could. He reiterated it now.

"Exactly," he said. "That's what I want to accomplish, and I can't do it without help. _Your_ help."

Riza looked at him wonderingly. Was he saying that he still needed her? Was such a thing even possible?

He withdrew his hand from her gentle grasp, drying it on the front of his tatty suit. "I need to be getting back," he said, running rueful fingers through his ravaged hair. "I'm exhausted. I'll see you tomorrow?"

Riza's throat went dry. Tomorrow? He was coming back?

"T-tomorrow," she stammered.

Mr. Mustang smiled and nodded affirmatively.

_discidium_

All his life, Roy had been ordered around. As a runaway and a gutter rat, he had been at the mercy of everyone from village corporals to railroad bums. In the Hawkeye house, he had meekly obeyed his sensei, and in the days before her committal to a State asylum, Mrs. Hawkeye as well. During the two years he had spent in Central, striving to achieve some proof that he had chosen a direction for his life, he had been on the very bottom rung of the hierarchy at a publishing house. By day, he took orders from the Academy instructors and the NCO support staff. By night, he danced to whatever tune the drunks on the waterfront chose to sing. Yet strangely enough, Roy found it hardest of all to take orders from his peers.

"That's not enough: more eggs!"

"I don't want the meat touching the hotcakes, you idiot!"

"Well, well! What'd Cadet Perfection do to deserve this?"

"What happened, Mustang? Forget to suck up to the wrong lieutenant?"

"Hurry up with that spatula: I haven't got all day!"

"I want exactly three-quarters of a cup of coffee, you alchemical wizard."

Roy looked up, startled, straight into a pair of mossy green eyes sparkling mischievously from behind rectangular spectacles.

"Maes!" he exclaimed. "Be _quiet_!"

Maes had almost whispered, but Roy had neglected to be so circumspect. The cadets in the line behind the third-year hooted with laughter.

"Oh, _Maes!_"

"Sucking up to the upper-years, too, Mustang?"

"Maes, be _quiet_!"

"You got told, Hughes!"

"Bossy little brat, isn't he?"

"Hey, shrimp, you should speak to your betters with more respect!"

Roy stiffened and slammed the serving spoon against the trestle table. "That's enough!" he said sharply, turning a murderous glare on the harassing crowd. "We're the men of the National Academy, not a horde of ravening Drachmans! Eyes front, plates out, and shut up!"

There was a startled silence. The cadets looked at one another, and then at Roy. Someone chuckled.

"You're all right, Mustang," one of the First Classmen said. "C'mon, Hughes, move along. We're all hungry, too!"

Roy gave Maes his coffee – three-quarters full, as requested. "Shape up or you don't eat!" he warned.

There was a widespread noise of amusement. Maes winked and moved along.

_discidium_

At lunchtime, the needling started out much as it had that morning.

"Hey, Mustang, what'd you do to pull this duty?"

Roy smirked. "I got tired of eating at the same table as the likes of you, Bartlett," he said amicably, sending the heckler off with a wave of the soup ladle.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen!"

"I wouldn't talk," Roy sneered. "Hold your plate steady. Hold it _steady_, Cadet!"

"I'm trying," the second-year said.

"Yes, very." Roy favoured him with a haughty grin as he shuffled along the line.

So it progressed. For every oh-so-witty comment thrown at him Roy had a sharp retort. The next day, the taunts were fewer. By the end of the week, the teasing had all but stopped. The act was successful: the snarky facade provided effective protection from the biting remarks of his peers. There was no fun in mocking one who could get the better of you.

An unintentional side-effect of the retaliatory sneering was that the others now looked upon Roy with greater esteem. Politeness and timidity were not respected in military circles. These were tough youths in the midst of intensive training designed to produce hardened men. Silence was perceived as weakness. A sharp retort spoke of strength and self-confidence. When Roy had born their remarks with quiet fortitude, they had looked down upon him. Now that he was giving as good as he got, he was an equal – not one to be victimized, but one to be tested as a comrade.

The change was surprising, and not unpleasant. Had Roy realized that a mask of confidence was all that he needed in order to ward off the hated attacks, he would have donned one long ago. With practice, he polished the skill of the sharp retort, and with each successive incident, his self-assurance grew.

Now he was more socially adept in the community of proto-soldiers – a society unlike any other. As an alchemist, too, he was developing by leaps and bounds. Any spare time was spent manipulating the air with increased skill and precision, and on Sunday mornings he would rise early and go out to the farmer's field to experiment with the proportions required for controlled combustion. There were a few more incidents of burned fingers, but no further damage was done to his clothing. His hair began to grow back, and each day brought him closer to perfecting his sensei's art. The third circle of the cipher, whatever it was, obviously did not contain any information that was fundamental to the mastery of flame alchemy.

The nightly visits to Riza continued, but they were brief. It was a rare night now when Roy was not in his bed by oh-three-hundred. He would have been better off physically if he had resigned from the tavern and reverted to weekend visits to the young girl, but the truth was that he needed to see her. He couldn't bear the thought of her, lonely and isolated in that wretched garret. At least by visiting her every day, he could assure himself that she was well. Though he did not admit it even to himself, Riza's wellbeing was the most important question on his mind. If only she could find better work: something more suited to a girl of her temperament and intelligence. Then life would be perfect.

There was a guilty part of his mind, too, that knew that he also wanted her to get a job with better wages. With the greatcoat paid off, the money from his work details was being sequestered away in an attempt to rebuild his savings, but the fifteen hundred _sens_ that he needed in order to sit the State exam still seemed like an impossible amount of money. If only Riza could earn enough to pay her own rent, or even a portion of it, then maybe Roy could have a hope of taking the test. He knew that, to be just and for his own sanity, Riza's daily needs had to come before his goals, but he would have been lying if he said he didn't long for something to change. He hated himself for being so selfish, but he _wanted_ to take the exam. He _wanted_ to become a State Alchemist. And soon money would be the only obstacle.


	10. Serendipity

**Chapter 10: Serendipity**

Riza's morning always started at seven o'clock, when she awakened to the noise of the children chasing after the bread truck that rumbled through on its way across the river. She could hear their gleeful chanting: "Baileys' bread is full of lead! The more you eat, the quicker you're dead!"

Riza dressed as quickly as she could, taking care to orient her stockings so that the holes rested on the side of her foot, where her toes could not poke through. Then she ate her breakfast: today a hunk of stale bread with a wedge of sharp cheese that Mr. Mustang had brought her last night. She took another piece of bread, a slice of bacon and two glossy green apples, and knotted them into a handkerchief. That would be her dinner. She also had a paper cone full of raisins and almonds on which to nibble as she walked to work, for now that he was helping in the Academy kitchens, Mr. Mustang was able to procure such treats for her.

When she was ready, Riza put on her beautiful new coat and descended into the street. As always, Mrs. Leung was watching from her sitting room window. She nodded at Riza, who wiggled her fingers in response. It was nice to know that somebody cared about her, even if it was only her landlady.

At this hour the streets were still quiet, and the sky still grey with early sunlight. Riza walked hastily through the streets, not wanting to pause lest she should draw attention to herself. When she reached the bottom of the bridge she realized that she was later than usual, for Carlie was already there, waiting for her.

Carlie worked on the lilies line at the factory. She and Riza were not really friends, but they met at the bridge and walked to work together every morning, and at night they walked back together, as far of the bridge. Carlie was seventeen, the same age as Mr. Mustang. She was tall and thin, and always wore twice-turned frocks with gorgeous tatted lace collars, which she made herself. Carlie had a beau who was in the military. He was a sergeant, and he was serving on the western front. When he accumulated enough seniority to put in for reassignment to a desk job, they were going to be married. Until then, Carlie was working so that she could save up enough money to help them set up a home together.

Wordlessly, Riza fell into step beside the older girl. Carlie was very talkative in the evenings, but silent as a statue in the mornings. This was because she hated to get up early. Riza opened the paper cone and offered it to her companion. Carlie took a few of the plump raisins, muttering a hoarse word of thanks.

"I had a letter," she said after a couple of blocks had passed. "From George." George was her betrothed. "Sounds like things are quieting down. Maybe he'll be able to come home soon."

"I hope so," Riza fibbed. She didn't really hope so. Really, she hoped that Carlie would always be around to walk with her. In the morning it wasn't so bad, but on the long walk home through dark streets, Riza was glad to have someone with her. She only wished that Carlie lived nearer to her tenement.

"I hope he doesn't go and get himself killed," Carlie said. "It'd be just like him to spoil it all!"

Riza said nothing. She could hear Mr. Mustang saying, _in this profession you never know when you might wind up dead in a ditch somewhere, like a piece of trash_. The thought made her shiver. She understood that soldiers must suffer and die so that the common people could live in peace, but she didn't want Mr. Mustang to be one of _those_ soldiers. He was meant to be one of the great heroes of Amestris, a demigod of war who safeguarded the land with the power of his hands, who triumphed over the nameless foes, and won great renown. She knew that this was a silly, idealistic way of thinking, but she was also aware that it sprung from a deep-rooted terror that he might, indeed, be killed one day.

The rest of the walk passed in silence, each girl brooding upon the dangers their men faced in their chosen line of work. At last, they reached the doors of the little grey factory. The other girls were clustered around the coat-hooks, braiding one another's hair and whipstitching one another's shoulder seams closed and gossiping light-heartedly. Carlie fell into the group at once, but as always Riza was on the outside. She had so little in common with these girls. They were cosmopolitan creatures, not one of whom had finished the Third Reader in school. They had grown up in the bustling, sociable atmosphere of an overcrowded city and they thrived on one another's company. They had read none of the books Riza loved, nor heard of the historical figures she admired, nor had any ambition beyond their dreams of men and families. Quiet, rurally bred Riza, who had lived for months at a time speaking to no one but her father – and only then when he asked – had no place in their world.

At eight o'clock the bell sounded, and the girls filed into the main workroom, taking their places in the assembly lines. Then it was twist, twist, twist the ribbons until eleven o'clock break, which was five minutes during which the girls could use the lavatory or have a drink of water. Then twist, twist, twist until the fifteen-minute dinner break at two o'clock. There was always more gossip and more laughing, and Riza always sat out on the fringe of the group. Then back to work and twist, twist, twist until six, when the day was done. The girls had to sign their timesheet to confirm that they had been at work that day, as if any would dare to miss a day's labour. Then they could go home.

Riza and Carlie walked together, Carlie talking about the colour that she wanted for her curtains when she had her little home with George. Riza tried to imagine such a life for herself: settling down in a neat little house or an apartment, with a loving husband who came home every day in a smoky blue uniform. The image didn't work. For one thing, she hated the thought of staying sequestered in the house, with nothing but her chores to fill her day. She had had such a life during the last years before her father's death, and she never wanted to suffer that purgatory again. Carlie's fantasy had another defect for Riza: she had no beau. When she tried to imagine a husband, it was Mr. Mustang who materialized in her mind's eye – and of course, that was absurd.

When they parted ways at the bridge, Riza watched Carlie's retreating form until she could no longer see it. Then, all too cognizant of the fact that she was alone, she hurried home as quickly as she could. She had no desire to repeat her experience with the drunkard.

When she reached the building, Mrs. Leung was there, watching from behind her parlour door. Riza smiled at her, and trudged up the stairs to her little room under the eaves. She undressed and put on her father's old shirt. Then she ate a little and lay down to sleep, so that she would be fresh and awake when Mr. Mustang came.

_discidium_

"Baileys' bread is full of lead! The more you eat, the quicker you're dead!"

Riza moaned softly. Time to get up. She rolled onto her back, startled to see her chest still covered with her father's shirt. But of course she had no reason to remove it, for Mr. Mustang no longer wanted to look at her back. Yet still he came to see her, though of course his visits were shorter now. Riza didn't care about that. She was just so grateful that he came at all, and though she knew he was doing it out of the goodness of his heart there was a part of her that almost dared to hope that he enjoyed the time that they spent together. She remembered Roy, the boy she had known, who had valued her as a person. Perhaps Mr. Mustang was starting to remember those days, too.

Then she realized that she had slept through the night. He hadn't come tonight. Doubt flooded back. Had he decided that she wasn't worth the effort after all?

She sat up, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. He hadn't come. She wanted to roll back into bed, but she couldn't. She had to get ready for work. Riza shifted her weight forward onto her perpetually-aching feet and stood. Then her eyes fell on the table. There stood a loaf of bread, a wedge of pound cake, an apple and an orange and a bright yellow pepper – none of which had been there the night before. There was a note next to the bread, and Riza picked it up. As she read it, a small smile crept onto her face.

_You looked so peaceful while you were sleeping_, the familiar handwriting spelled out. _I didn't want to wake you. I hope you don't mind. See you tomorrow! Roy_.

Now, there could be no doubt that he cared about her – not only about her back or even her needs, but about her feelings as well. Riza stared at the paper for a long while... but it was time to get ready to go to work. She had to get dressed.

_discidium_

The warm weather came, and the walk to the factory grew brighter and more pleasant. There were flowers in the windowboxes now, and yellow dandelions like golden starbursts poking their tenacious yellow heads up through the pavement. There was enough money for Riza to live on, and Mr. Mustang told her that he was even able to put aside a little each month. He was saving his money so that he could sit the State Alchemist exam once he perfected her father's technique.

With the troubles of the last months finally resolved, and some level of security achieved at last, it was perhaps inevitable that something would go wrong. On the last day of April, something did. Riza was let go from the factory.

The call for artificial flowers was a seasonal one. They were needed in the winter, when even the hothouses in South City could not produce enough blossoms to meet the demands of weddings, funerals and debutant balls. Silk flowers were a staple of the trade from November until May, when the real thing was once more readily and cheaply available. Then demand flagged, and the workers who produced the flimsy vanities were no longer needed.

The announcement seemed to come as no shock to the other girls. They merely shrugged their shoulders and took their last week's pay, and left. Riza lingered behind, clutching her precious eighty-five _sens_, and trying to work up the courage to speak.

"What is it?" Mr. Baxter asked at last, looking up from the ledger. "You've got your wages: go home."

"B-but sir," Riza stammered. "I can't – I need this job."

"What job?" he grunted. "There's no work for you here."

"But you didn't give me any notice," she protested. "I haven't had a chance to find more work. I need the money, sir."

"That's not my problem, girlie. You knew when you took the job that it was a seasonal thing: don't come crying to me now!

Riza was about to protest that she _hadn't_ known, that no one had said anything of the kind, but the man got up from his seat and crossed towards the warehouse door. She followed him.

"Isn't there something else I could do?" she begged. "I can clean and I can cook. I have my school diploma, and—"

He turned around and looked her over, then cackled meanly. "_You_ have your school diploma? Girlie, I've been in this line of work for fifteen years and you can't lie to me. All you little skirts are the same: primary school dropouts who'll never be good for anything but simple manual work and popping out babies. Now _go away_. I have things to do."

Riza stood still for a moment, cut to the bone by his biting words. Was that really all that the future had in store for her? A lifetime of slaving away in places like this, for a wage she couldn't even live on, until she found a man who would lock her up in his house and order her around from morning until night as her father had?

No, she thought. That couldn't be right. That _couldn't_ be all that she was good for! Why, she had accomplished more than that already! She had helped Mr. Mustang, aided him with his research and helped to set him on the path to greatness! He would become a State Alchemist, a great man capable of moulding the future of the whole nation, and she had helped him with that. Perhaps – perhaps there was more that she could do to help him. She _wouldn't_ be just another girl careening off towards marriage.

"That's not true!" she protested, more forcefully than she meant to. "And I _have_ got my diploma! I can do algebra and complicated arithmetic – I could help to balance the books, or I could reorganize your records or I could—"

"Look!" the man snapped, whirling on her angrily. "There's no more work for you here! You've got your pay for the week – the _whole_ week, might I add, even though it's only Wednesday! There's nothing more I owe you. Get out of my sight or I'll call the soldiers and have you dragged off the premises! Go! Shoo! Get!"

A delicate, feminine cough from the other end of the broad warehouse interrupted his tirade just at the moment when Riza was sure he was going to raise his hand to strike her. Mr. Baxter turned towards the sound.

A pretty, statuesque woman was standing near the burly receiver. She had caramel-coloured hair, lightly feathered with grey and pulled into a knot at the nape of her neck. She had a kind face and she wore a sweet smile. The foreman grimaced in an attempt to look endearing.

"Mrs. Oakley!" he simpered. "What a surprise!"

"Is it?" she said pleasantly. "It's Wednesday after all. I'm here to pick up my last order of the season."

"Well, I'm sure David'll be able to manage..." Mr. Baxter muttered. He grabbed Riza's elbow and hustled her back into the warehouse.

"Get out!" he hissed, giving her a small shove towards the door. "I'm running a business here, not a charity. Out!"

Riza tried to gather her coat and her untouched dinner, but her hands were shaking now, and it was hard to coordinate them. She had lost her job! True, it was through no fault of her own, but the fact was that she had no work, and there would be no money. How would she explain to Mr. Mustang?

Trembling with anxiety, she stumbled out into the sunlight. The street was deserted, save for a little blue truck with a gangling young blonde behind the wheel, one arm draped lazily out of the open window. It was parked on the curb, and David the receiver was loading three crates of artificial flowers into the low bed.

As Riza watched, the woman came out of the warehouse. She exchanged a couple of quiet words with the receiver and gave him a bundle of bank notes. He nodded his thanks and disappeared inside, dragging the heavy bay door closed behind him. The woman looked up from her handbag and smiled at Riza.

"Hello, there," she said. "I'm Dorothy Oakley."

"Riza Hawkeye," Riza murmured, clutching her coat to her body and wishing that she could disappear. Today was a terrible day, and she wanted to run back to the tenement and hide herself away from the world.

"I couldn't help overhearing what Mr. Baxter was saying to you," the lady said, coming nearer and cocking her head to one side. "I take it you were working here?"

Riza nodded, fighting to retain her composure. She needed this job. She couldn't be without it. The wages, scanty though they were, paid for her food and what little coal she still needed, now that the weather was so clement.

"Is it true, what you said about your school diploma?"

"Yes, it is!" Riza cried, suddenly defiant. It was the one great pride in her life that she had finished her education. Even though her father had pulled her out of the one-room school in Hamner when she was not even eleven, she had been in the Fifth Reader class then, among fifteen- and sixteen-year olds. Her schoolteacher had put through the paperwork even though she had had more than a month to go before graduation, and he had given her the treasured diploma just before she had left her hometown to come to Central with Mr. Mustang. "I know I'm young, but I have it, and I could show it to you!"

Instead of being shocked by this outburst, Mrs. Oakley's smile softened still further. "I'm sure that's not necessary, love," she said. "Am I right in guessing you need work?"

Riza flushed, her anger abating as the despair flooded back. "I have to work," she whispered. "I _have_ to."

"We all have to work, honey, whether we need money or not," Mrs. Oakley said. "If we were lazy all day, we'd shrivel up like old prunes."

Riza almost laughed. That was an interesting way of putting it. She couldn't imagine being lazy all day. The early weeks after her arrival in Central, when she had had nothing to do but sit in the tenement and wait for Mr. Mustang's nightly visits had been absolutely dreadful! "I suppose that's true, ma'am," she said.

"Now, I like to think I put in a good day's work," Mrs. Oakley said. "I own a flower shop, you know, and it takes a lot of work to keep it running. I've got my boy Orson to run the errands—" She nodded at the young man in the truck. "—and I do the arrangements and work with the customers, but ever since my husband died it's been a struggle to keep the ledgers in order. My daughter's the only one in the family with a head for figures, and she's away at finishing school in North City. I've been saying we simply _must_ hire an accountant. Haven't I, Orson?"

The young man nodded emphatically.

"The only trouble is that I can't pay very much," Mrs. Oakley went on. "I could manage three hundred _sens_ a week, but that's all, I'm afraid."

Riza's eyes were growing very wide. Was it possible that this lady was offering her work? And such work! Clerical duties, and three hundred _sens_ a week? Why, with that kind of income she would be able to pay her own rent!

"Would you like to try it?" Mrs. Oakley asked. "Even if it was only for a week or two until you had a chance to find something better? No one's touched the books since my daughter was home on the New Year's holiday, and they really ought to be looked at..."

"Oh, ma'am," Riza breathed. "Do you mean it? I could work for you?"

"If you'd like to," Mrs. Oakley said.

"For three hundred _sens_ a week?"

"It isn't much, I know," the lady said apologetically. "But it is such a small shop, and with all this unrest on the borders I don't think there'll be so many weddings this year, and—"

"I'd love to!" Riza cried, unable to contain herself any longer. She had to accept, before this kind-eyed woman could change her mind. "Where is your shop? When can I start? Do I need to bring anything with me?"

Mrs. Oakley laughed. "You could start today, if you like," she said.

"Oh, yes, please!" exclaimed Riza. "If you'll just tell me where to go, I'll—"

"Nonsense! You'll ride with us." Mrs. Oakley rounded the truck and opened the passenger door, motioning that Riza should climb up inside.

Riza scrambled in, sliding along the broad seat so that she was next to the young man. He turned to smile at her. He had a stout middle and stubby legs, and his face was very flat and broad: a wide forehead and a heavy, rounded jaw, eyes slanted slightly downwards in a way that Amestrian eyes did not usually slant. His blonde hair was curly and unruly. His enormous smile overflowed with a pure joy in living.

"I'm Orson," he said cheerfully. "You're pretty."

Riza was startled by this blatant assertion. "I... thank you," she stammered. "I'm Riza. Pleased to meet you."

His smile, if possible, grew still more enormous. "Pleased to meet you, too!" he said. "We goin' back to the store, Mama?"

"Yes, please, love," Mrs. Oakley said happily, closing the door and smoothing her skirt.

Riza gasped and stiffened as the truck rumbled forward. She could feel it shuddering beneath her, and she wondered if it was going to explode. She had never been inside an automobile before, and it was a frightening experience. She looked hastily at Mrs. Oakley, who was looking serenely out of the windshield, and then at Orson, who was grinning happily as he navigated around the corner. It must be that the truck was meant to make such noises, Riza thought, trying to calm her nerves.

Then she realized that she had a job after all, and one that paid almost four times what the factory work had! She stole another glance at the kind lady next to her. Everything was going to be all right, she realized. Three hundred _sens_ a week!

And, she realized, Mrs. Oakley had not even asked her age!


	11. An Unexpected Customer

**Chapter 11: An Unexpected Customer**

Oakley's Floral Delight was located on Riza's side of the river, in an old neighbourhood full of shabby but stately apartment buildings and skinny houses with two and three storeys. The little shop stood in the middle of a row of commercial buildings with apartments above, which the proprietors either resided in themselves, or let out for supplemental income. Orson parked the truck on the curb, and his passengers climbed out. Mrs. Oakley took a bunch of keys from her handbag and unlocked the front door of the shop.

"Orson, dear, please bring the crates inside," she said pointedly, fixing her son with a meaningful look. Orson had been watching Riza avidly. He nodded with vehemence and hurried back around the truck.

"Come with me," the lady said to Riza. She led the way into the shop. The front space was bright and cheerful, for the broad bay windows were polished almost to transparency, and they let the sun in beautifully. There was a long counter with rolls of ribbon and paper, shelves of empty vases and demure little baskets, and several little tables bearing the first blossoms of the season. Mrs. Oakley went to a little door behind the cash register, and entered a small room.

It was a cramped office, the desk, shelves and twin filing cabinets overflowing with paper. There were invoices and purchase orders, inventory lists and customer files and printed instructions for the care of plants, all jumbled together into an entropic mass.

"This will be your space," Mrs. Oakley said, a little ruefully. "It's quite a mess, I'm afraid. It's so much work running a proper shop. Sometimes I think I'd be better off selling posies from a handcart." She moved to the small window and forced it open with effort. A tiny cross-breeze alleviated the feeling of a tomb. "I think there's a slide rule somewhere," she said.

"I probably won't need it," Riza said. She didn't know much about accounting, but it seemed like it ought to be chiefly simple arithmetic and excellent organization.

"I see you have your dinner," Mrs. Oakley went on; "but from now on I want you to eat with Orson and me. I'm used to cooking for three, but with my daughter away at school I always have too much food. There's no point in arguing with me, for I've made up my mind. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," Riza said.

"Good. I'll let you get to work. I'm afraid I have no advice to give you: I'm useless with the books." Mrs. Oakley navigated around Riza and backed out of the room. She smiled encouragingly.

Left alone, Riza stood for a long while, at a loss as to where to begin. Finally, deciding that the first step was to restore some semblance of order to her environment, she bega to sort the papers into piles: invoices in one, purchase orders in another, inventory lists in a third, and so on.

_Discidium_

Mr. Mustang was delighted to learn that Riza had a new job. He had not, he told her frankly, ever liked the idea of her working in a factory. This kind of work was much better: more suited to Riza's temperament and more appropriate for one of her intelligence and education. Riza had flushed with pleasure at those words. Her intelligence? He found her intelligent. It was something she could not recall ever having heard from her father.

As a week passed, and then two, Riza decided that she liked the new job. It required less onerous standing, and it was anything but tedious. Sorting through months and months of jumbled business records was like trying to assemble a jigsaw puzzle without any idea of the picture printed upon it. It was challenging and at times frustrating, but it was not dull.

Mrs. Oakley was very pleasant. She could be exceedingly shrewd with difficult customers or the wholesalers peddling truckloads of flowers, and she was not afraid to press her price, but she was a kind employer. She was endlessly patient with Riza's questions, and she never criticized her work or scolded her. Dinners in the Oakley family flat above the store were a pleasant affair. Mrs. Oakley quickly realized that Riza had no interest in answering questions about her childhood, her home town, her family or her upbringing, and instead they talked about books or music or the Oakley family.

Mrs. Oakley had once been a working girl like Riza. In those days, there were no factory jobs in Central, at least not for women. Instead, Mrs. Oakley – who had then been Miss Carpenter – had taken a post in the home of one of the city's finest old families. She had many funny tales about her time in service, and both Riza and Orson (who had clearly heard them all before!) both laughed at stories of dinner parties gone awry and below-stairs drama. Mrs. Oakley had started as a chambermaid, and then become a parlourmaid. Then she had married the flower peddler, and as a wedding gift the family for which she had worked had given the young couple the money to start the florists' shop. The association had not ended there, however, for Mrs. Oakley's daughter was only a few weeks older than their firstborn. She had been asked to be the child's wetnurse, and with the birth of her second girl she had nursed their second child, too. She had been employed part-time in the nursery until Orson was five years old.

This story came to light after a curious experience on a rainy Wednesday afternoon. Mrs. Oakley had just stepped out to run something to the post office, and she had asked Riza to mind the shop in her absence. Not expecting much custom, Riza had brought the ledger she was trying to work on into the front of the store, and sat down at the stool behind the counter to work.

She had not been at it for very long when a shadow eclipsed the greyish light filtering through the windows. Riza looked up just as an enormously broad-shouldered man in a beautifully tailored tweed suit rippled his way into the shop. Her eyes widened slightly at the sheer size of the man.

"Well, well. What's this?" he rumbled in a deep, oddly melodious voice. "Where's Nanny Greta?"

Riza's mouth went dry. She recognized the man, with his all-but bald head and his square jaw and his titanic proportions. She had run away from him once, at an estate on the north border of the city where she had gone to seek work as a companion to a young heiress.

"T-there's nobody of that name here," she squeaked. His height was shocking, and his voice so strong and resonant – the effect was quite intimidating. She stood up, so as to make her slight frame as tall as possible, and she held her head high. She was on her turf now, or rather on Mrs. Oakley's. She would prove herself worthy of the trust placed in her. "We have some lovely yellow roses from West City, though, if you'd like to give Nanny Greta some flowers when you find her."

The big man laughed, and suddenly he looked a great deal younger. He was maybe two or three years older than Mr. Mustang, Riza realized. Suddenly he wasn't quite so frightening: he was just an overgrown boy.

"I'll take two dozen," he said, pulling out a pocketbook, which burgeoned just like the rest of him.

"Ninety _sens_, please," Riza said. "Shall I wrap them for you?"

"You'd best do that," he consented gravely. His sparkling blue eyes followed her as she rounded the counter and carefully picked out twenty-four plump rosebuds brimming with untapped potential. She took a few ferns from another vase, and then arranged the lot onto a square of waxed florist's paper. The young, muscular gentleman smiled. "Very nice," he said. "Though they might be more esthetically pleasing if you arranged a ribbon just so..."

His large hands brushed hers out of the way and deftly adorned the bouquet. "There, you see?" he said. "Eye-catching, artful and exquisite, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," Riza said politely, though she did not really agree. The bow, which was a lurid shade of pink, seemed a little gaudy. She would have preferred the simple beauty of the flowers unadorned by such an ornament.

"I thought so!" the man said happily. "This technique of presenting floral arrangements has been passed down through the family line for generations. My great-aunt Dahlia Jean Armstrong had a particular talent for horticultural displays, and she—"

The door opened, and Mrs. Oakley came in from the rain, shaking out her umbrella. She took one look at the tall, imposing customer, and her whole face illuminated with a smile. "Why, Master Alex!" she cried.

He turned upon her so quickly that his broad shoulders created a breeze. "Nanny Greta!" he said. Suddenly his eyes were brimming with tears of happy nostalgia. "It's so good to see you!" he said.

Then, to Riza's amazement, he picked up Mrs. Oakley and hugged her energetically. "It's been a long time!" she laughed, apparently not frightened to be so handled by this giant.

"Too long! Much too long!" said "Master Alex". "I'm sorry that I've neglected you, but I've been busy with my studies."

"Your studies – do put me down, Master Alex! I'm much too old to be tossed around like a sack of flour. You're following in your father's footsteps, I hear?" Mrs. Oakley smoothed her dress.

"That's right!" he agreed. "It's kept me very busy. Mother would like me to take a course or two at the University, but I don't have the time: I'm working ten or twelve hours a day as it is."

Mr. Mustang worked from dawn until two in the morning, and _he _had time to take courses at the University, Riza thought a little scornfully. Then she caught herself. Of course, not every young man was as marvellous as Mr. Mustang, and this one seemed like a nice enough person in his own right. At least, Mrs. Oakley seemed to like him.

"What brings you out here?" she asked happily.

"I wanted to see you..." he began. Then he appeared to decide that this was too much of a fib. He shrugged sheepishly. "I need some flowers," he said. "We have a captain in the family now, and we're holding a ball for her: I'm supposed to get centrepieces and something for the great room."

"She's a captain now?" Mrs. Oakley cried. "Why, she's only twenty-three!"

"She did well on her tour in the west," Master Alex said. "Three commendations and the Scarlet Heart. We're all very proud."

Riza thought she heard just the tiniest hint of envy in his voice. Whoever "she" was it was obvious that this young man wished he could measure up to her standards. Mrs. Oakley picked up on it too, for she reached up to touch his muscular arm.

"Don't fret, love," she said. "You wait and see: once you've perfected your art you'll become a State Alchemist just like your father. You'll do your family proud."

_He _wouldn't have any trouble paying the examination fee, Riza thought a little bitterly, remembering the huge house with the fountain and the statues and the spreading lawns. Mr. Mustang was struggling so hard to save the money that he would need. It didn't seem fair that some people were so rich and others had to fight for everything. Riza didn't mind fighting herself, but she wished things were easier for Mr. Mustang...

"I hope so," the large youth said stoutly. "Mother has a few ideas, but I know she trusts you and I to come up with something delightful."

"I see you've already started," Mrs. Oakley said, nodding at the roses.

"Oh, no, those are for _you_!" Master Alex told her. "Just a little present..."

Mrs. Oakley laughed. "Oh, Alex, there's nobody quite like you!"

He chuckled in reply, and the single blonde curl in the centre of his forehead bobbed in agreement.

_discidium_

"Miss Livvy was such a beautiful baby!" Mrs. Oakley reminisced later that afternoon, when the blonde giant had taken his leave. "And _wilful_! I never saw such a determined child. I remember when she was eight months old she learned how to pull herself up onto her feet. That wasn't good enough for Livvy, though! She wanted to walk just like a grown-up. She would work for hours, bouncing and cruising like she _knew_ it would build up the muscles in those little legs of hers. Then one day she just took off across the nursery at top speed! My little Lucy was five weeks older, and she was barely crawling – but she wasn't as determined as Miss Livvy!"

She clipped the stem of a bundle of lilac and nestled it into the cube of peat that she had in the little basket. "And now she's a captain. Captain Olivier Milla Armstrong, no less. It's a name that'll strike terror into the troops, I'll warrant! My Livvy wouldn't do anything but."

"A captain at twenty-three?" Riza said. "That's young, isn't it?" Maes Hughes was twenty-three, and he still had more than a year left at the Academy.

"Very," Mrs. Oakley said, and she looked as proud as she did when she spoke of her own daughter's accomplishments. "But then, she had an early start. She enrolled in the National Academy when she was only fourteen."

"She did?" Riza said. "But I thought you had to be sixteen. Mr. Musta—my friend couldn't enrol 'til then."

"You can't, unless you have parental permission. And of course you still have to meet their standards, which isn't easy. Livvy did it, though. She's always done everything that she set her mind to. She's a clever girl, and stubborn as an ox. Beautiful, too..."

While she went on to expound upon the virtues of her one-time nursling, Riza's mind was whirring furiously. Fourteen? You could enrol in the Academy at fourteen? And a girl had done it. If it was possible for one girl, it was possible for others.

Riza had always wondered if she might one day join the military. It would give her a chance to make something of her live. Attending an academy would tender the opportunity to attend university, which seemed otherwise impossible. And Mr. Mustang was in the military: he expected to serve for life. If Riza wanted to continue to help him, to support him and encourage him as he pursued his lofty goals, then the military was where she would have to be. She could start on that road at the age of fourteen! She was thirteen already: next year she might join! The thought was dizzying and delightful.

She would have to consider it carefully, of course, and she would have to consult with Mr. Mustang. It was a big decision, and it would take a great deal of luck and even more hard work. Riza knew that she was a hard worker. She could do it. She was strong and clever and dedicated. She could become a soldier... just like Captain Olivier Milla Armstrong. Riza fixed the name in her mind.

She would tell Mr. Mustang about it tonight. She needed to know what he thought about the idea, for she could scarcely proceed without his input and his blessing.


	12. Obstacles

**Chapter 12: Obstacles**

The rainclouds smothered Central in a greyish gloom, hanging like a gravid blanket over the city. The skies had been emptying themselves since before dawn, and the streets were choked with mucky runoff. On the grounds of the National Academy, the sane were immured indoors studying or attending lectures or wasting the afternoon in indolence. The _in_sane, Roy Mustang reflected, stood on the edge of the parade grounds in shirtsleeves and weight belts, awaiting Captain Pike's orders.

Beyond the stands from which drills were observed stretched the aspen woods that were enclosed in the compound. The little forest hid the obstacle course that one-quarter of the class had been assigned to complete today. Because of the rain, they had been given the option of rescheduling to a different evening. Some had gladly accepted the out and would do it next Friday. A slim majority had decided otherwise, and was here anyway. The obstinate ones could not let the weather get the best of them. Others wanted to get the unpleasant task out of the way so that they could start dreading it. A few, Roy among them, had no choice: hectic schedules would allow no last-minute changes.

The truth was that Roy was looking forward to the challenge. He knew that many of his classmates had been spending time on the course in the hopes of improving their scores, but he had had no time. He was going in blind, and there was something exhilarating about the prospect. It was a chance to prove to himself and to his classmates just what Roy Mustang could do.

It was strange how the breakthrough with his sensei's alchemy had bolstered the young cadet's confidence. Roy practiced on Sunday mornings, usually under the wary eye of Maes Hughes. Each week he gained a little more control, and the little victories were nourishing a new self-assurance. Roy knew that he held his head higher and his shoulders more square than he had in the past. His voice was firmer, louder – and not only when he was taunting his peers. He had more faith in his own abilities, now that he was proving himself in his art.

Pike was striding up the row of damp cadets, assigning partners for the exercise. He came to Roy and paired him with Cadet Farrell. Verner Farrell was a brawny young man of nineteen, with broad shoulders, crew-cut blonde hair, and an attitude of entitlement. In the past, he had been one of the chief players in the mockery of skinny, Xingese-eyed Cadet Mustang. Though the recent lack of a receptive audience had stemmed the tide somewhat, and sapped the enthusiasm of many of his followers, Farrell was far from fond of the younger cadet. As Pike moved on to his next pair of victims, Farrell leered at Roy out of the corner of his icy blue eyes.

"The course is marked with orange posts," Pike barked. "Stick to the marked path. Understand me? Stick to the marked path. I don't want to hear any sob stories from idiots who went the wrong way. Also, you're to stay with your partner. You are responsible for everything he does, so stick to him like glue. If one of you makes it through and the other doesn't, or you finish at different times, or you go through different checkpoints, then both of you fail. Understood?"

"Understood, sir!" the cadets chorused crisply.

They were sorted into a line, and Pike wound up a heavy stopwatch. Every thirty seconds, he sent another pair jogging forward. Roy and Farrell were next-to-last: only the one group of three stood behind them.

"Aaand... GO!" Pike barked.

Roy took off at a steady trot, pumping his arms neatly in the way that he had been taught. When he had been small, running had been a chaotic thing. In the days... _before_ – the vague term that his mind used for those hellish years prior to his unheralded arrival in the Hawkeyes' back yard – he had only moved so quickly when he absolutely had to. To run had been to pour out what little energy his small starved body had had in a desperate attempt to escape some danger, either real or imagined. Later, in his prepubescent years, he had only run when in the company of Maes: a mode of conveyance full of youthful abandon.

At the Academy, he had learned that running was more than that. It was a precision motion, a tightly controlled process with its own set of rules and its own standards. To run properly, one had to perfect the technique and to execute it with care each time. Like all other skills, it required attention, dedication and practice.

Beside him, Farrell was moving in an identical manner – save that instead of keeping his eyes front he kept leering at Mustang. As they rounded a tree and came upon the first orange marker, he spoke.

"You better not hold me back, Mustang," he huffed, the need to keep his breath level and controlled robbing him of the ability to speak with a normal cadence. "You might be the instructors' favourite golden boy, but we both know you're no soldier."

"Maybe," Roy said smoothly. "But at least I have the basic intelligence required to qualify as an officer. And I can run and speak at the same time."

The path took a sharp turn to the left, and there was a steep descent into the creek bed. The rain had rendered the path slippery and muddy, and the two cadets banked as they moved into their descent, scuttling down on the sides of their boots. Roy lost his footing about halfway down, and would have slipped, save that he caught hold of a loose root and managed to regain his balance.

Farrell cursed. "I told you!" he said. "The military is no place for slope-eyed pantywaists!"

Roy whipped his head around to look over his shoulder at his partner. "You've never seen a panty waist in your life," he sneered. "I doubt you've even seen a petticoat."

Verner scowled blackly, but by this time they had reached the bottom of the bed. There was a log spanning the swollen creek, and a little further upstream there were four broad stones protruding from the swirling waters. Farrell made for the log, but Roy grabbed his arm.

"Don't," he said, pointing at deep grooves in the mud to either side of the makeshift bridge. "The ground's too soft, and the log has been rolling. I'll bet more than one pair's taken a tumble."

"You can't be serious!" Farrell snapped as they approached the stones. "The current's too fast and the water's too high!"

Roy contemplated continuing the argument, but each moment wasted was another moment added to their time. Instead, he darted forward and leaped nimbly onto the first stone. With four more long, springing strides, he crossed the creek, turning to look back.

"Hurry up," he drawled, cocking one eyebrow scornfully. "You better not hold me back."

Farrell rolled his eyes and climbed onto the log. He took three confident steps. Then, as Roy had predicted, the tree trunk pitched south, and Farrell lost his balance, landing with a splash in the frigid water. He thrashed on his back for a moment, then found his footing and tried to scramble up the slippery bank. His feet slipped from beneath him, and he pitched onto his stomach.

There was a roar of laughter from the opposite bank: the last group had caught up, and they were watching with vindicated amusement. Roy looked at the other three young men, and realized abruptly that perhaps Verner was not as popular as he had thought him to be. The others seemed gratified to see him in such an undignified position.

He had more immediate concerns, however. A mud-spattered face glared up at Roy from the mucky creek bed. He strode back towards his partner and extended a hand.

"Come on, Cadet!" he said sternly. "We have a job to do."

Verner glowered in resentment, but he took the proffered leverage and let Roy haul him up. Not waiting for any further discourse, Cadet Mustang grabbed hold of one of the ropes draped over the steep embankment, and started to scale the mucky eight-foot cliff. Wordlessly, Verner took the other.

There was a log wall to climb, old truck tires to leap over, a very damp culvert to slither through. There were pitfalls to avoid, loose patches of path to be navigated, and a field of dummy mines armed with ear-splitting alarms to navigate. All of it had to be done at a steady running pace, and more than once the two cadets were obliged to help one another. Nevertheless, they made good time, and passed pair after pair of their fellow trainees. When at last Mustang and Farrell emerged on the other side of the parade grounds, rain-soaked, sweat-drenched and muddy (Verner moreso than Roy), they clocked in at a secure second place, despite the holdup at the first obstacle.

As the sodden cadets crowded around a table in the mess hall, drinking hot tea and towelling one another's hair, Roy tried to inch away from the group. He had to get changed and ready for latrine duty before grabbing a little supper and running off to work. He was halfway to the door, when Farrell started after him.

"Hey, Mustang!" he snapped.

Roy froze, expecting the worst as the bigger cadet came up behind him. "Farrell."

The next words were whispered. "Why didn't you cut me down in front of the others?" Farrell demanded. "I mean, I've done it to you enough times. Why not take revenge?"

Roy regarded him as coldly as he could. "You were on my team," he said. "It would have been counterproductive to make you feel like garbage."

There was a brief silence while Verner sized him up. "Oh," he said flatly. "Well... good work today."

"Thank you," Roy said curtly. He turned and strode away then stopped at the door. They had been teammates today, united for a common purpose, and they had done well. That most certainly did not make them friends. "Just watch out next time: I'll cut you down in a minute if the opportunity arises."

There was a small, oddly respectful grunt, and as he strode away Roy squared his shoulders a little more confidently as a tiny swagger slipped into his precise, military stride. Another victory for Mustang, he thought.

_discidium_

Riza's carmine eyes were shining like rubies in the candlelight, and somehow the sight caught Roy completely off-guard. He was tired and stiff, and he still felt damp, though he knew that the last symptom was purely psychological, since the rain had stopped sometime after twenty-two-hundred hours. It was a shock to see someone looking so... radiant.

She was obviously bursting with excitement, but as always she waited for him to speak.

"Hey, Riza," he said, closing the door with care. "Did you have a good day?"

"I know what I want to do!" she exclaimed quietly, her voice ignited with enthusiasm.

"Do?" he echoed, startled.

"Yes!" Riza's head bobbed in delight. "I'm going to join the military."

Roy's throat went suddenly dry. "What?" he croaked.

"I'm going to enrol in the Academy, too!"

"You're too young," gasped Roy, choking out the first thing that came to mind, despite knowing just how much he would have hated to hear such a comment.

To his surprise, Riza didn't seem in the least bit upset. "I know," she confided, nodding. "I'm only thirteen now, but next year when I'm fourteen I can apply."

"No you can't," he said, relieved. "You need parental permission."

"I don't have any parents," argued Riza. "It's perfect: I can contribute, just like you do. I'll be able to do something with my life, and I can attend university just like you and Maes Hughes, and—"

"You can go to university without joining the military," Roy protested.

She shook her head. "There isn't any money for that," she told him sombrely. Then her smile reappeared. "But the military would pay for it, and I would have lodgings and board, and two hundred _sens_ a week _per diem. _Maybe I could even help you save the money for your exam."

Roy flinched. How did she even know about that? He couldn't remember telling her: had it perhaps slipped out in the hazy nights of discouraged exhaustion that he had spent over her back. He didn't want her to feel guilty about the money. It wasn't her fault that her father had died almost penniless. He had been glad to help then, and he was still proud to assist her in whatever small way he could. He was proud of her, working so hard despite her youth. None of these thoughts made it to his lips.

"That's ridiculous," he said cuttingly. "You can't join the military. Do you have any idea what it means?"

Riza drew back one uneasy step, her eyes widening and her delight fading. Roy didn't want to hurt her, but he couldn't let her labour under the delusion that military life was a safe and ideal way to build a future for herself.

"The Academy is _hard work_, Riza! You're so busy learning how to march and drill that you hardly have any time to study. I can't put in even a fraction of the time I want to working on my alchemy, and you'd never be able to take all the courses you want at the university. And never mind that: when you're finished school you'll be an officer! Don't you know what that means? They could send you into battle. You could be hurt. Maimed. _Killed_. You could die in a ditch like a dog! You should hear the stories Maes has about the front lines! Poor food, no sleep, men torn to pieces by Aerugan shells. What about Ira? Do you want to die like that, with a festering wound in your chest?"

"No, of course not!" Riza cried softly. Her eyes were still bright, but with tears now. "Nobody would want to die that way, but what about what you said? That the soldiers have to fight and suffer so that ordinary people can be happy? What about building a better future? What about your dreams?"

"They're _my_ dreams!" Roy exclaimed. "I don't want you to die for them!"

Riza narrowed her crimson eyes, and the motion caused one tear to spill out onto each cheek. Her expression, however, was determined and even defiant. "That isn't fair!" she snapped. "It isn't just your dream! You're not the only one who's working for it! You wouldn't even be able to become a State Alchemist without my father's research, and _I'm_ the one carrying it! I've been here every night, waiting for you to solve it. I've been just as tired and hurt and discouraged as you have, only _I_ wasn't allowed to say anything!"

It was true. She had never once complained, no matter how cold the room had been, or how long he had spent staring at her naked body, studying the hideous burden with which she had been afflicted. She had put up with hunger and misery and a dreadful, debasing factory job, all to provide him with access to her father's research. But now, when all was going well – why did she want to set herself on a road that would only bring her more suffering?

"You can't join anyhow," he said. "Even if it wasn't such a terrible idea, you're much too young."

"I'll be fourteen in February—"

"You can't enrol at fourteen without parental permission!" Roy repeated. "I wanted to my first year away. Your grandfather said—"

"I can't get parental permission: my parents are dead!" Riza protested. She looked genuinely alarmed, as if this hurdle had not even occurred to her. "I'm living on my own, I have a job, I don't need—"

"You aren't even supposed to be living alone!" Roy told her. "They'd send you to the State orphanage if the authorities found out. If you try something stupid..."

"Like what?"

"Like forging your father's signature," Roy said. "If you try something stupid they could lock you up."

"That's ridiculous," Riza said, but there was doubt in her voice.

"Besides, you're a girl!" he added.

"What has that got to do with anything?" she exclaimed. "Girls can be in the military!"

Roy had been startled by his own exclamation, and her disputation was so obviously true. "Well, yes, they can," he allowed; "but they don't have to be. You could... uh..."

"Get married?" Riza snarled. "Have babies? Slave away keeping an empty house neat and clean? Even if I _did_ want to do that, which I _don't_, what kind of man would want to marry me? I don't want to be an accountant in a flower shop forever. I want to do something worthwhile. You don't have any right to tell me what to do with my life!"

"Of course I don't, but I can't let you do something like this! Even if you _could_ get a signature from your grandfather or something, the Academy's not an easy place for girls! There are three in my year, and they're... they're not very nice." They were abrasive and standoffish and twice as tough as their male compatriots. They had to be: it was the only way for them to survive in a hostile environment. Though he respected them as classmates, he didn't want Riza to become like them.

"There's a woman in the military who's a captain at twenty-three!" Riza told him. "_She_ enrolled when she was fourteen. If she can do it, I can do it."

It was at that moment that Roy realized there was nothing he could do to talk her out of it. She had told him once that she was just as stubborn as he was, and he believed it. She had been a strong-willed little girl, and though years of her father's brutal mistreatment had turned her into a meek and withdrawn little wraith, it was obvious that some of that obstinacy remained like a skeleton of tempered steel. She wasn't going to give up, and he had no right to try to force her to. She deserved a dream, even if it was the same naive notion to which he so desperately clung. She had a right to decide what to do with her life, even if he did not like the idea.

"Riza," he said softly. "I think it's a bad idea, but—"

"I don't care what you think!" Riza cried. "You can't stop me; you have no right to stop me! I don't need you anymore, and I'm not going to let you control my life! I'm old enough to take care of myself, and I'll join the military if I want to! Now go away and leave me alone!"

Roy gawked. "Riza, I—"

"Get out! Go away!" She gestured at him, waving him away.

"Riza, I care about you—"

"No you don't!" she shouted. "Did you care about me when you left without even bothering to say goodbye? When you left me all alone with my father and his research? When you never, not even once, in _two years_..." She seemed to think better of whatever she was about to say, for she turned her tirade in a different direction. "I _don't_ want you telling me what to do! If that's the price for taking your help, then I don't want it! Now get out of my room! I pay for it now, and it's mine, so get out!"

"But—"

Riza pushed past him and wrenched open her door. "_OUT!_"

Afterwards Roy dimly remembered stumbling down the stairs and into the street. It was not until he was back on Academy soil, safe between the standard-issue sheets of his bed that he let the reality come crashing down. They had had a fight. He had fought with _Riza_, the one person on earth – apart from Maes, of course – who he cared about. He had been wrong to force his charity upon her, and to try to tell her what she could and could not do. She was brilliant, intelligent, determined, educated... beautiful. She could do anything she wanted, including join the military and be a captain at twenty-three, like this mythical female soldier about whom she had heard. He had no right to crush her dreams, not when she had given everything to support his.

Roy did not go to see Riza the following night: he did not want to inflict his unwanted presence upon her. Somehow, it did not seem appropriate to go back the next night, either. Or the next. Or the next. He couldn't go back to her until he had some way to make it right.


	13. Bleak Reminiscences

**Chapter 13: Bleak Reminiscences **

Three days after the fight, Riza was still reliving it. She would roll it over in her mind: the things he had said, the things _she_ had said. More than once she caught herself changing the words that she had said. After a while, the real quarrel and the fantasy arguments became muddled together so that she was no longer certain who had said what and when. One thing was obvious, though. The encounter had ruined everything.

She had expected Mr. Mustang to be happy for her. After all, he focused all of his energies and aspirations on a bright and beautiful future. With the drab, difficult present to contend with, Riza could not blame him for that. He couldn't face reality the way that she could, and he coped by setting his sights on a distant horizon. It had only seemed logical that he would be pleased to find that she was doing the same thing.

Instead, he had shown nothing but dismay. His harsh words had torn into her, stripping away her excitement and crushing her spirits. He had said terrible things about the Academy, and about the military. He had spoken horribly of Ira Hughes, who had been not only his friend's older brother, but the younger one of Riza's beloved Benjamin. Cognition told her that Mr. Mustang had no way of knowing how the thought of the tinker-boy's death frightened her. In her heart, however, Riza was reminded of her father, who had always seemed to know precisely what to say to shatter her slender self-confidence.

Thus cornered by his words and robbed suddenly and brutally of the first truly happy moment that she had had in months – in years – Riza had lashed out. Like a trapped animal snarling at its predator, she had flown into a rage. Looking back, Riza wanted to die of embarrassment. She had behaved like a child: a spoilt, defiant child throwing a tantrum because a playmate had snatched a toy from her hands. And like a child, she was terrified of her own outburst, as well as ashamed. That wasn't how she normally behaved at all, but disillusionment and desperation had driven her into a fit of uncontrollable rage as the pent-up strains and emotions of the past months had burst horrifically forth from her lips.

No wonder Mr. Mustang had not come back to see her. He probably wanted nothing more to do with her after that disgraceful display. Riza wished that he _would_ come, so that she could apologize for her infantile behaviour and try to explain her position more calmly, but night after night there was no sign of him. She was starting to despair of ever seeing him again.

She was working in her little office on the eleventh day since the altercation with Mr. Mustang. Her calculations were interrupted by a soft knock at the open door. Riza looked up to see Orson leaning against the wall. He was wearing blue coveralls and there was a smudge of oil on his nose. In his hand, he had a bouquet of honeysuckle – not the cultured honeysuckle that was sold in the shop, but wild blossoms like those that had grown in the ditches by the road into Hamner. The sight of them reminded Riza instantly of home – and of a long-forgotten time before her mother's descent into madness, when a happy little girl had gathered handfuls of flowers under the prairie sun.

"G'morning," Orson said.

"Good morning," Riza replied politely. "How was the delivery?"

"Good," grunted the young man. He had taken the flowers out to the Armstrong estate for Captain Armstrong's celebratory ball. The family had spent two hundred thousand _sens_ on them. On flowers alone. It was more money than Riza would earn in a decade of working at this little desk. She knew it was wicked of her, but she could not help feeling just a little envious. She didn't want to be _that _rich, but she would dearly have loved to have enough money to pay for university, and Mr. Mustang's exam, and maybe a new skirt.

Orson held out the flowers. "These are for you," he said. "I saw 'em while I was driving back, and they looked pretty. Just like you."

Riza found herself blushing a little. "Thank you, that's very kind," she said. "I love honeysuckles."

The thought of being given flowers when she worked in a flower shop suddenly struck Riza as a little funny. In spite of herself, she laughed softly. Orson's happy grin vanished instantly.

"What'sa matter?" he asked. "What's funny? I wasn't trying to be funny."

"Oh, no," Riza said, instantly contrite. She didn't want to hurt his feelings, not when he was being so sweet. "I just... why did you bring me flowers?"

Orson shrugged shyly, twisting one foot against the floor. "You've been sad," he said.

"I guess I have," Riza admitted. "I... I had a fight."

"Did you get hurt?" Orson asked worriedly.

"Not that kind of fight. An argument."

"With who?" he asked, heavy golden brows still knit in concern.

"With a boy – with a man who... with a young..." Riza paused. How could she describe her relationship to Mr. Mustang? They were not family, though they had grown up together. They had ceased to be friends on the day that he had decided to run away without saying goodbye to her. They were no longer colleagues working towards a common goal. What were they? "With a cadet who used to be my father's student. We were fighting because I want to enrol in the Academy and he didn't think I should."

"Miss Livvy went to the 'Cademy," Orson put in. "Mama said she was the youngest girl to do that."

"I know," Riza said, nuzzling the bouquet of wildflowers with the tip of her nose. "That's how I know that I can do it, too."

"I don't want you to," Orson said bluntly, nodding his head in an imperious way. His oddly sloped eyes narrowed in disapproval.

Riza felt a stirring of indignant anger. Did every man have to tell her it was a bad idea? Why couldn't they mind their own business?

"Well, _I_ want to," she said with surprising obduracy.

"But who's gonna do the books, then? Mama's no good at 'em, and Sis is away at school." Orson looked suddenly like a lost little boy. It hadn't taken Riza very long to realize that there was something different about him. He wasn't as sharp as most people, and he couldn't read or write except to sign his name. He was a very good driver, and he could fix just about anything... but sometimes he behaved much younger than his years, and there was a sweetness to him that other boys did not possess.

"I'm not going right away," Riza soothed. "Maybe I won't be able to go at all.

"Good," Orson said. "I don't want you to go. Not ever. You're nice and you're pretty. If you stay, you can meet Sis when she comes home for the holidays!"

"I'd like that," Riza promised.

Orson grinned toothily. "Good," he said happily. "That's real good."

Then he strode off to get back to work, leaving Riza with her columns of numbers and her armful of honeysuckles.

_discidium_

Orson Oakley loved children. He would let them play in the bed of his truck, and even gave them rides up and down the street. He would save wilted blossoms to give to the little girls, and the boys he would enlist to help him work on the rickety engine of the blue truck. He kept a bag of humbugs in the front pocket of his coveralls to mete out to his little friends – for of course, the children of the neighbourhood loved him, too. Many of them had working mothers who were too busy in the family shop to spend time with their young, and fathers who wore sober moustaches and grim, practical frowns, so Orson's smiling face and boundless patience was treasured by the children. He was really an overgrown child himself, and that made him at once their friend, their mentor and their ally.

Beyond the age of eight or nine, this attitude shifted. Older girls gave Orson a wide berth when he loped down the street, clustering together to whisper and gossip when he was gone. Their male counterparts would tease him, mocking his awkward gait and his deep voice, calling him hateful names, and throwing refuse at the truck that he kept so proudly polished. Working boys were the worst of all. They were hateful bullies, and could be downright cruel and even violent unless Mrs. Oakley was on hand to chase them away with her broom.

So it was that today Riza kept one eye on the two customers browsing in the shop, and one eye on the window. Orson was outside, changing the oil in the truck while he talked to Katrina Harris.

Katrina was his special pet. She was six years old, but a lifetime of poor nutrition had stunted her growth so that she looked much younger. She lived over the butcher shop with her family – seven people crammed into two tiny rooms. There had been eight, but her brother had finally reached that magical sixteenth birthday, enlisted as a private, and been deployed to the western battlefields. Her parents both worked at Amalgamated Auto, which produced most of Amestris' low-end motorcars. She had an older sister, ten years old, who seldom ventured outside, for she cared for the grandparents. Katrina's grandmother was blind, her hands gnarled with arthritis and years of piecework. Her grandfather was dying of the black lung, for he had been a miner. This left Katrina to care for the baby.

His name was Mikey and he was eleven months old. He was in rude health, for by some miracle his mother still had her milk, and she fed him morning and night, supplementing the gruel on which most babies his age subsisted. He was so plump, and Katrina so small, that he was an onerous burden for her thin arms. Though he could walk if she held his chubby hands, he had no shoes. So it was a common sight to see Kat waddling up the street, struggling under the weight of her baby brother.

Now, she was sitting on the curb with Mikey settled between her legs, his back to her stomach. He was playing with the nuts from the engine, which rested in a hub cap that Katrina held. Once in a while, his sister would coo fondly in his ear, but mostly she was occupied in serious discourse with Orson.

The tableau reminded Riza painfully of Benjamin Hughes. The eldest of the six Hughes brothers (Roy's friend Maes was the youngest) had befriended her the summer after her mother's death. Those days had been some of the darkest in Riza's young life, second only to the horrible pain and torment and humiliation that had attended her father's application of the tattoo. She had not understood why her mother was dead, why her home was torn apart, why her father was angry and distant and no longer seemed to love her. Mr. Mustang – who had in those days been Roy, her dear, dear boy and her only playmate – had been growing up so fast, busy with his alchemy and with Maes, with no time for her. Ben had made time. He had played cat's cradle with her, taught her how to move quietly through the forest, how to hunt rabbits and pheasant. Quiet, introspective and sober, his temperament had suited her perfectly.

As the years had passed, Ben's health had deteriorated. He was tormented by his past, by the part he had played in his mother's death and his brother's birth. Those demons had driven him to drink, and the alcohol had closed its iron fist around him. When last they had met, Ben had been struggling to stop drinking, with little success.

Riza wished that he was here in Central, instead of far away in the east somewhere. More than anything, she needed a friend. She was ashamed of this weakness, but in her heart she knew that however strong she tried to be, she was still just a young girl. She missed her friend. She wanted to see Ben again.

There was an indignant shout from the street, and Riza looked up. Orson was backed against the open bonnet of the truck, cornered by three burly boys. They were obviously from the construction site up the street, where a new branch of the Central Bank was being built: they wore hard hats and denim work pants, and their muscular chests were bare. They were leering wickedly at Orson, taunting him in derisive tones that were muffled somewhat by the glass.

Riza ran to the door, ignoring the customer who had just made an inquiry about lilies. She burst onto the sidewalk just as Katrina let out a second shout and sprung onto her skinny legs.

"He ain't!" she sobbed furiously, as the hubcap full of bolts went flying from her hand. "Orson ain't!"

"Sure he is!" one of the big boys snorted. "Retard, retard!"

There were tears in Orson's eyes, but he said nothing. His mother had coached him to ignore his tormenters in the hope that they would go away. Katrina was not so circumspect. She stepped over her baby brother, who was looking around in bewilderment, trying to divine where his toys might have vanished, and pushed the biggest of the boys.

"He ain't!" she cried.

Riza came forward. "Move along, please," she said timidly.

"Who's gonna make us?" one of the bullies sneered. "You?"

"I'm gonna!" Katrina shouted. She pushed again. The young man, obviously annoyed, swatted her. He likely did not mean to hit her hard, but she was so thin that the inertia of the blow sent her sprawling to the pavement with a startled cry.

"Stop that!" Riza yelped in horror. The boy nearest to her grabbed her arm.

"Hey, don't get sore. He's only a retard," he reasoned loathsomely. "Gimme a kiss."

He leaned forward, smacking his lips, and with his other hand he pawed at Riza's waist. She tried to twist away.

"Leave her 'lone!" Orson bellowed. Suddenly he sprung forward, shoving the boy with all his might. Orson was short and stocky, but he was solidly built and strong from toting crates full of stock. He upset the bully's balance, and Riza wrenched her arm free. "Get outta here before my mama comes back!" ordered Orson, pushing the bully again. "You don't hurt Riza, an' you don't push Kat! Get outta here!"

The bullies turned tail and strolled away as quickly as they could without disgracing themselves. Riza clutched her arm, trying to catch her breath. On the pavement, Katrina was shaking and crying, her knees and the palm of her right hand skinned and bloodied. Little Mikey began to wail, because he was frightened by the shouting and his big sister was crying and his bolts were gone.

Riza picked him up, jiggling him against her hip. "Are you hurt badly, Katrina?" she asked, trying desperately to sound calm. She could still feel the place where the youth had grabbed her, but Mikey was batting it contentedly, and that seemed to make it feel better.

Kat shook her head, but she was still crying softly. Orson knelt down beside her.

"Don't cry," he begged. "Don't cry, Kat."

"You ain't," she blubbered. "You ain't a retard."

Orson grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, I am," he said. "Just a little bit. I can't read or write. I ain't smart like Sis and Riza. And you. Hey, Kat, I bet you could learn to read."

Kat shook her head. "Got nobody to teach me," she said. "I can't go to school."

Orson considered this. "Maybe Riza could teach you," he said. "Hey, Riza? Could you teach Kat her letters?"

"I'd like to," Riza said, swinging back and forth so that the baby gurgled happily; "but I have work to do."

"Mama'd give you time," Orson said, grinning enthusiastically. His altercation with the other boys was all but forgotten. "I bet Mama'd pay you for it, too. We'll ask her. When she gets back from errands, we'll ask her."

_discidium_

Mrs. Oakley, amazingly, approved of the idea. Each afternoon, Kat would come by the store with baby Mikey, and Riza would sit with her for an hour, teaching her her letters. Kat was a bright child, and easily engaged. She learned quickly. Mrs. Oakley would feed her little sandwiches and a big glass of milk, and she bought baby biscuits for Mikey, too.

It was a lovely break from the accounting work, and somehow Mrs. Oakley found an extra twenty-five _sens _a week, which she called Kat's tuition. That money helped to buy food, but more important was the change in pace. Riza loved the baby, with his fat little feet and his endless smiles. And she loved teaching Katrina, who was so sweet and clever, and who reminded her of what _she_ once had been, long ago before her father had forced her to change into something else.

That week, Riza wrote a letter and sent it off to South City, where Eli Hughes worked. Maybe he would be able to get it to Ben. She wished desperately that he would write to her. Well, have _Gareth_ write to her, for Ben had never been to school and was almost illiterate. Central was too far out of the way for him ever to visit her, but Riza waited every day, hoping that he would write.

Most of all, though, she wished that Mr. Mustang would come to visit her in the night again, as he had been wont to do before she had driven him away with her childish tantrum.


	14. Legal Argument

**Chapter 14: Legal Argument **

The commissar swung open the door to the storage bay. "Your stuff is in the back corner there. If you mess with anyone else's, I'll have your hide. Understood?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" Roy said crisply. "Thank you."

The lieutenant shrugged affably. "It's my job," he said. Then he strode back up the hallway and vanished around the corner.

Roy stepped into the crowded bay and maneuvred around heavy chests, padlocked crates, bicycles and a pair of remarkably orange skis to the three small lager boxes that had been placed here months ago. He opened the top on, and closed his eyes with a long-suffering sigh. Maes had caught up and was now hovering over his shoulder like a tall, bespectacled, good-natured and _extremely _obnoxious bumblebee.

"What are you looking for?" he asked as Roy closed the crate and shifted it to the floor.

"A paper," he said shortly. Maes had been sticking to him like glue these last few days doubtless he had picked up on Roy's low mood and was trying to ferret out the cause. Roy half wanted to confess, to confide in his friend, tell him about the fight with Riza, and ask him for advice. To do so, however, would necessitate admitting that he had been lying to his friend for six months. Loath though he was to admit it, Roy was too much of a coward to own up to his deception.

It did not occur to him that this was precisely the reason why he was so annoyed with Maes.

"What kind of paper?" asked the Second Class cadet, clearly undaunted by Roy's coldness.

"Just a paper," Roy said irritability, lifting out a book and handing it over his shoulder and out of his way. "Here, hold this."

"What is it?" Maes asked, insatiably curious.

"My alchemy primer," Roy said curtly. That book was the only basic text that he had rescued from his sensei's library. The others were all rare and valuable volumes filled with complex arrays and advanced information. This first simple text he had kept not for its monetary worth, nor for its unique content, but because it had a certain sentimental merit.

Roy's hands lighted on the stack of papers that he sought and he began to sift through it.

"So this is how alchemists get their start, huh?" Maes mused, turning the heavy tome in his hands and fingering the well-worn spine. He cocked his head to one side. "Hey, Roy, there's something in here."

Roy didn't hear him. He had found what he was looking for. Two pages, cut carefully from the last volume of Mordred Hawkeye's otherwise useless journal. Roy had blotted them off as best he could at the time, but the paper was stained a hideous russet brown. In places the ink was smudged or obliterated with dark stains, but as Roy struggled over the long phrases of legalese he reflected that surely it was legible enough. It had to be.

"Hey, Roy..." Maes persisted, pointing at the book. "Somebody stuck a _whole bunch _of unopened—"

"Oh, shut up, Hughes!" Roy said, snapping the volume closed as he snatched it from his friend and thrust it back into the box.

Maes raised his eyebrows. "Yeah, but—"

Roy snorted crossly. He wasn't in the mood to humour Maes with anecdotes about his training. There were far more important matters to deal with. He tucked the papers under his arm, closed the little crate, and then skirted around Maes and left the storage room. He nodded at the commissar and strode out into the sunlight. Maes came striding after him.

"What's going on here?" he demanded. "What's so important about that paper?"

Roy stopped walking. "Maes, how much money do you have?" he asked.

"Maybe four thousand _sens_. Why?"

"I need to borrow it." Roy braced himself for the next question, wondering how the hell he was going to come up with a reasonable lie.

"No you don't," Maes said.

Roy turned on him, ready to protest, but his friend was grinning. "I told you," sang Maes, throwing an amicable arm around Roy's shoulders. "Any time you want it, it's yours."

Roy chuckled softly. It was so good to know that he had such a friend.

_discidium_

The lawyer took the pages, and a small puff of rust-coloured dust came off of them. Roy flinched a little, but kept his back straight as he perched on the edge of the leather chair.

"He signed it," he said quietly.

The attorney nodded once, holding up a hand for silence. He slid a pair of reading glasses onto his snub nose, and started to read. When he reached the end, he set the papers down on his blotter, rubbing his fingers together and grimacing in distaste.

"The document is damaged."

"Yes, he was writing it right before he... right before he died," Roy told him. Suddenly the image of his sensei, crimson gore spewing from his lips as he fought for his last desperate breath assailed him. "He coughed blood over it. I tried to save as much as I could. I mean, you can read what it's supposed to say, can't you?"

"More or less," allowed the adult. "Where is the minor—"

"Riza," Roy corrected.

"Where is Miss Hawkeye now?"

"At work," Roy admitted softly. "She works in a flower shop."

"I see." He leaned back in his chair and twirled his moustache around one index finger. With the other he tapped the bloodstained document. "It isn't notarized," he said coldly.

"A—a will doesn't have to be notarized to be legal, does it?" Roy asked. "I mean, since he didn't leave any other one... He says it right there. He wanted..."

"'_And for the provision and protection of my only daughter, Riza, I leave her to the care of my most – _I assume the ruined word is '_trusted' – apprentice, one Roy Mustang, until such a time as she comes of age'_," the attorney read. "Very prettily put, but without a notary's signature it's not an official document."

Roy's stomach churned. "But I thought you said..."

"It's legal, it's just not official," the man said. "We can draw up custody papers based on this if you want, but if a blood relation comes forward to contest the will, they could easily have it overturned in court. Then your money's wasted, your reputation's ruined, and if they can convince the judge that you had any ulterior motive in taking the girl into your care, you could even wind up in prison."

Roy thought of Brigadier General Grumman, far away on the western front. He thought his granddaughter was living with family friends. He hadn't pressed Roy for information, nor made any attempt to force him to betray Riza's trust. Surely he wouldn't try to take Roy to court.

"That won't happen," he said firmly.

"You'd be surprised how often it does," the man said. "After all, as her guardian you'd have control of the inheritance."

"There wasn't any inheritance," contradicted Roy. "My sensei didn't even leave enough to pay for the burial."

"So then you've been supporting the girl after your military wages? Impressive." The man curled his lip in a way that said he was not at all impressed. "Very well, then. I'll draw up the papers. Then Miss Hansen will see about my fee."

_discidium_

Roy stood in the street for a long time before he worked up the courage to enter the tenement building. He wanted more than anything to see Riza, but he was afraid.

What if she didn't want to see him? Their argument had been so ugly, and it was all his fault. He should never have said all of those things about the military. It was unfair: despite the hard work, he loved it; and despite the hazards integral to his chosen path, he was at peace with it. He could not imagine another life for himself, and it was unjust to criticize Riza for wanting to make the same decision. Her life was her life, and he had no right to dictate what she should do with it.

He had been shocked by her reaction to his words. Riza was habitually quiet, reserved, diplomatic. She had _shouted_ at him, and that more than anything had awakened in him the awareness that what he had said to her was unequivocally wrong. However much he wanted to protect her, it was obvious that she did not want his protection. At least not that kind of protection.

So Roy had decided to give her some time to herself. She didn't need him hovering over her shoulder like some judgemental fool. He could not bear the thought of her marching into battle to kill or be killed, but neither could he stand to lose her now, to estrangement instead of to death. Even if she didn't need him, he needed her.

And she _did_ need him, legally at least. Whatever she wanted to do, wherever she chose to go, she would be in danger. The laws governing children under sixteen were very clear, though seldom enforced. Without a parent or a legal guardian, she might be removed to a State orphanage on the grounds that she was incapable of caring for herself. That was a lie: Roy knew that Riza was a strong and self-sufficient young woman. The State would not see it that way, however. There was only one way to ensure that she would be safe from the system that had tried to capture him at the age of five, and with the help of Maes's money and Hawkeye-sensei's informal bequest, Roy now had the paper that he needed to do protect Riza.

He just wasn't sure how to explain it to her so that she wouldn't misinterpret it. He didn't want to tell her what to do with her life; he just wanted to make sure that nobody else could, either.

He steeled himself and mounted the steps, tipping his cap to Mrs. Leung as he passed her parlour door. He hoped that Riza would understand. She _had_ to understand.

_discidium_

When she heard the gentle rapping at her door, Riza scarcely dared to believe it. She sat up in bed, rubbing her eyes and trying to wake up her mind. It was a dream, she knew. Just a wistful dream.

It had occurred to her a few days ago that Mr. Mustang was gone for good. He had tired at last of her childish behaviour and her constant dependency. Her tantrum had driven him away, and now she was alone. And try though she might to be strong and proud and defiant, she was terrified by that thought.

But there it was again: a _tap-tap-tap _on the door.

"Riza?" a low voice implored from without. "Riza, please. Please let me in. I'm so sorry..."

She was out of the bed and across the room even before she could process what she had heard. She loosed the bolt and opened the door so that it bounced against the wall. And before she could stop herself, before Mr. Mustang could react, she had flung her arms around him and had her face buried in the front of his shabby, tobacco-saturated suit.

"You came back!" she gasped, relief awakening her most childish instincts in the same way that desperation had eight days ago. "You came back!"

He stood rigidly, looking down at her with alarm. "I... yeah, I..."

Riza wanted to burst into tears, to cling to him and beg him, implore him never ever to leave her again, but her dignity would not allow it. She released her hold and stepped back, smoothing her ragged nightgown and attempting to look prim and collected.

"I'm pleased you came back," she said, her voice wavering only a little.

His face was lined as if with pain, and he took a step forward, holding out his hand to her in a gesture of supplication. "Riza..." he breathed.

She forced a little laugh. "I thought you'd forgotten about me," she said; trying to sound like the women in her beloved books: cool and teasing and indignant. It didn't work. That wasn't her at all.

Mr. Mustang knew it, too. He pulled off his cap and ran an unsteady hand through his unruly hair. "Riza, I'm so sorry," he said. "I never should have said those things. I... The military's dangerous, and it _is_ hard work, but... but if that's what you want to do..."

"I didn't mean to shout at you," Riza burst out. "I just... it's not fair for you to tell me what to do."

"No," he said sincerely, fixing his coal-coloured eyes on her. "It's not."

That response drew her up short. Her whole body stiffened a little. "It's not?" she said.

"No. I hated it when people tried to tell me what I had to do with my life," Roy said. "I wanted to make my own decision, and I did, and you've helped me so much. I... I need to let you make your own choices. You're not a child anymore, and you can take care of yourself. You've certainly proved that. It isn't fair for me to try to make choices for you just because I lo... because I care about you."

The words seemed to echo in the tiny room. Riza's eyes widened a little. He cared about her. She had come to suspect it, even believe it, over the last few months, but to hear him say it... "You do," she breathed. It was part question, part wondering exhalation, and part confirmation.

"Of course I do," he said. Then he grunted softly, and the spell was broken. Riza remembered young Roy, her playmate and her friend, and how hard it had been for him to express what he was feeling or thinking. It had never occurred to her that grown-up Mr. Mustang, with his dashing uniform and his military confidence and his strong new voice, might still cling to some shadow of that childhood insecurity. Now she realized that this was precisely the case. She watched as his whole visage changed, his vulnerable, tormented expression hardening into a smiling and casual mask.

"I brought you a present," he said, digging in his pocket and producing an envelope. He handed it to her. "Go on, open it."

Riza carefully broke the glue that held it shut, and drew out a certificate printed on heavy card, and a bundle of official-looking papers. She looked at the certificate first, and her stomach shrivelled into a stone. "What's this?" she said softly, though she could read better than most adults and knew perfectly well what it said.

"I... your father's will made me your guardian," Mr. Mustang said. "You remember when he died, and the notary said I couldn't be, because I was only seventeen? Well, I..."

Riza's eyes narrowed. "You're _still_ only seventeen," she said suspiciously.

"I know," he exhaled. "But... I sort of... _implied_ that I wasn't. You know: military cadet, tripped out in full dress... it's an impressive sight."

"You lied," she said. "You lied to a lawyer to get this certificate."

The young man shrugged. "Not a lie, really. I didn't actually _say_ I wasn't eighteen yet... and anyway by the time we need it, I will be."

"What do you mean?" Riza asked.

"Look at the other papers," he told her.

Riza shuffled through them, and her stomach unclenched as she saw what he had brought her.

"In February," he said; "when you're fourteen, I'll sign it. And if you want... then you can apply to the Academy. You'll need an officer to endorse you – a colonel or better, if you want to attend in Central – but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. If... if you really want to join the military, I won't stop you."

"Stop me?" Riza echoed. That wasn't good enough.

"I... I'll be happy to support you," Mr. Mustang corrected. "I'll be _proud_ to support you. Because you're right. Girls can be soldiers, too. And I shouldn't control your life just 'cause I'm a little older. And... and I don't want... I don't want you to be angry at me anymore."

That was not what he had been about to say, and Riza knew it, but she let it pass. She knew him well enough to know that there was no use in trying to force information out of him. If he wanted her to know it, he would tell her.

"I stopped being angry as soon as you left," she said. "It was my fault, anyway."

"No it wasn't," he told her. "You had every right to be mad. I was being... kinda dumb."

Riza smiled a tiny smile. "You certainly were," she ventured.

Mr. Mustang laughed softly. He held out his hand. "Friends?" he asked.

"Friends," Riza said, reciprocating the gesture.

"Well, good," he said as they released their mutual grip. "I'm glad we got that sorted out. Now, there's something else."

"Yes?" Riza asked, moving to sit on the edge of the bed and setting the application papers carefully on top of the clothes press.

"I don't want to come to visit like this anymore," he said. "It's too late at night. You need your sleep. _I _need my sleep. And it's against the Academy rules."

"I see," Riza said carefully, though her contentment was ebbing swiftly away. He didn't want to visit her anymore."

"Besides," Mr. Mustang went on, nodding at the certificate; "now that I've got this I've technically got family. Cadets can put in for afternoon furloughs to visit family. I could come anytime, not just in the dead of night."

"You could?" That might not be so bad. If he came to visit in the afternoon, maybe when she got home from work, that would certainly be better. Then they could both get a full night's sleep, and they would be better able to visit if they were not in danger of dozing off in mid-sentence.

"Yeah. Not every day, of course, but at least once a week. Would that be okay? Once a week?"

No, Riza thought. She needed to see him every day. The last week without him had been torture. She lived for seeing him every day: it gave her life purpose and direction. But, she thought, she was an adult now, and adults made compromises.

"I suppose so," she said softly. Then she thought of something that Mrs. Oakley had said just the other day, speaking of a business deal with one of her wholesalers. _A compromise doesn't mean that one side wins and the other gives in_, she had said. _A compromise means you both give something and you both get something._ Riza licked her lips, trying to work up the valour needed to speak her mind. To her amazement, it was easier than she had expected it to be.

"Once in each work week, and every Sunday too," she said firmly.

Mr. Mustang looked surprised, but then he grinned easily. "Fair enough," he said. "Except the third weekend in June: the colour guards are competing, and I won't be able to leave campus."

"Then you can come twice in that work week," Riza told him, almost before she realized how impudent that sounded. To her amazement, the young soldier nodded and agreed that that, too was fair.

After they caught up on the accounts of one another's week, and Mr. Mustang left, Riza lay awake for a long time, staring at the military application forms and mulling over the extraordinary events of the evening. She was as surprised at her behaviour tonight as she had been by her tantrum of the previous week. The difference was that she was proud of herself now. She had been dignified, polite and able to speak her mind. She had stood up for herself without acting like a spoilt baby. And she had convinced Mr. Mustang to keep coming to see her. She realized that she must be growing up after all.

Maybe, when she was a little older, she would have the courage to ask why Mr. Mustang had run away from her without saying goodbye... and why he had never written her a single letter in the two years of his absence.


	15. The Sleuth at Work

**Chapter 15: The Sleuth at Work **

Maes Hughes was by nature a generous man. Raised in a large and close-knit family, the idea of communal property was deeply ingrained in his being. What he had was meant to be shared with those he loved, adn he did so instinctively and with happy abandon. He loved Roy Mustang just as much as any of his brothers, and liked him a good deal more than some of them. So when Roy had asked for his money, Maes had handed it over without a second thought: for more than two years he had been pressing his friend to help himself, and it was great to see Roy finally doing it.

Unfortunately for Mustang, Maes Hughes was also by nature a _curious_ man. Roy had been pushing his luck lately, with all this creeping around – to say nothing of working himself half to death. For a while Maes had bought the story that Roy was working to recoup his savings and that he snuck out at oh-two-thirty every morning to gratify his carnal appetites. Recently, however, the puzzle pieces had been changing, and this picture no longer seemed to fit.

For one thing, there was the four thousand _sens. _Maes certainly didn't begrudge Roy the money, and he really didn't care why he wanted it. He just cared that he didn't _know_ why Roy wanted it. The deadline to apply for the State Alchemist exam was the ides of March. This was the first week in June, so Roy couldn't be topping up his fee at the last moment. True, he might have finally realized that accepting something from a friend wasn't the same as taking charity, but Maes doubted it. He knew that Mordred Hawkeye had been an idiotically proud man, and he had passed that attitude on to Roy. Maes also suspected, and had for more than a decade, that when Roy had first come to live with the alchemist, Hawkeye's wife had lorded his dependency over the head of the beggared little runaway. That kind of thing could scar a person forever.

Why, then, did Roy suddenly need four thousand _sens_? Having now faith in his ability to wrangle a satisfactory answer out of Mustang, Maes decided that the place to start was the cadet's personal belongings.

He deliberately chose an afternoon when the first-years were drilling on the parade grounds and he knew the barracks would be deserted. Since a second classman wandering into the empty bunker might arouse suspicion, Maes was careful that his approach was not observed. Once inside, with the heavy door between him and any prying eyes, he did not switch on the light. The sun filtered through the slats of the aluminum blinds, and provided him with sufficient illumination for his clandestine mission.

Maes strode down to the middle of the room and squatted at the foot of Roy's cot. The heavy metal footlocker sat waiting for him. Many cadets did not bother with the padlocks that they were issued, but Roy was neurotic about security. Maes supposed that this, too, was Hawkeye's doing: the man had hidden his research in some kind of code that his own apprentice had taken months to break, for God's sake! He obviously wasn't the best guy to teach trust.

Ah, well. It didn't really matter. Maes knew that Roy trusted him, whether he felt able to tell him everything or not. Stiff and newly snarky Cadet Mustang was a damaged soul, and Maes empathized even if he couldn't quite understand.

And anyway, he knew the combination to the lock – not because Roy had shared it, but because he lacked a certain subtlety of motion required to hide his fingers' movement from a skilled observer. Maes sprung the lock and opened the iron chest. The box with Roy's dress uniform gloves lay neatly on top. There were textbooks and reams of clumsy class notes – Roy had never had strong literacy skills, and though he now had adaptations that allowed him to cope Maes knew he still struggled with spelling and usage. Writing of any kind was an unduly slow and laborious process for his otherwise brilliant friend.

There was a coffee can under a torn yellow kerchief. Maes knew that it had been, once upon a time, Roy's bank, where he stashed his hard-earned money. It was empty. Tucked in a corner of the footlocker Maes found a disintegrating billfold. This looked like the perfect place to stash invoices or promissory notes, but all that Maes found was a fifty-_sens_ bill, a peppermint wrapper and Roy's spare credentials.

There was nothing else of interest in the footlocker, so Maes turned his attention to the clothes cupboard. Obsessively perfect stacks of crisply folded underwear, starched uniform shirts, neat, square, standard-issue handkerchiefs and perfectly rolled socks stared back at him. Roy's well-used "housewife" kit, with its shoe polish, the brass cleaner, soft rags for buffing buttons, needles and blue thread and all the tools required for a soldier who wanted to keep his uniform absolutely pristine, sat on the second shelf next to his standard-issue comb, toothbrush, razor and shaving mug. There was his spare jacket hanging from the rail, and his full dress togs next to it. On the very bottom shelf, hidden in the shadows as if its owner were ashamed of it, was a tatty gabardine suit jacket and its accompanying trousers, which Maes knew Roy wore with a uniform shirt and his combat boots. Those two and a battered newsie's cap were the only non-military garments that Mustang owned.

Maes looked at the military greatcoat hanging from a peg by the head of the cot. It represented the last of Roy's possessions left to inventory – save the uniform he was wearing right now and three wooden boxes full of alchemy texts. Maes plunged an exploratory hand into first one pocket, and then the other. His fingers lighted on a piece of flimsy carbon transfer paper.

"_Henry, Huxley and North_," Maes read aloud, studying the letterhead mark at the top of the page. "_Probate and Civil Law_." It was an invoice for "consultation services", in the amount of two thousand six hundred _sens_, and for "registration dues" in the amount of two thousand on the nose. Maes chuckled softly. "Now, Mustang, _why_ would you need a lawyer?" he asked.

The door to the barracks opened. "What are you doing in here?" a stern female voice demanded. Maes whirled around to see one of the lady cadets – a tall brunette by the name of Schmidt – standing in the doorway. He rammed the invoice into his pocket, and tried to look innocent, but the door to Roy's cupboard still hung open.

"Uh... surprise accouterment inspection!" he fibbed, grinning toothily. "Shouldn't you be drilling?"

Then he saw that she was leaning on a crutch, one ankle held up from the ground and swathed in elastic bandages. A sprain or a strain. Damn. He should've had his contact in the infirmary check to see if any first-years were down with injuries that might preclude them from drilling.

"Gee, you should be a detective or something, Cadet," Schmidt said sarcastically. "Who authorized this?"

"It's a... project," Maes invented. "For Advanced Inspection and Command Protocols, Lt. Colonel Brighton. The lucky ones get to harass the third-classmen."

She seemed to accept the fib, for she hobbled down to the girls' corner of the barracks and sat on her bed to study. The only trouble was that Maes had to look into twenty-two more cupboards full of underwear on his way to the door. The things you put up with as a friend of Roy Mustang. Honestly.

_discidium_

On the way to Tactics the following morning, Roy was cornered by an enormous grin and two pale green eyes glinting wickedly from behind a pair of rectangular eyeglasses. The younger cadet let loose a long-suffering sigh.

"What now, Maes?" he asked.

"I've been thinking," Maes mused lazily. "Why would a seventeen-year-old need a civil lawyer?"

Roy paled. Maes knew. How did he know?

"Because most first-year cadets aren't buying houses or squabbling over employment contracts or—"

"I was writing my will, okay?" Roy said hastily. "I went to the lawyer so he could help me draught it up."

Maes stopped short. "Your will?" he said. "But... why?"

"I'm a soldier," Roy said. "I could be sent into battle, killed... you have to be ready for that."

"Well, yeah, but..." Maes rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "I mean, you don't have much to bequeath."

"There's my sensei's books," Roy pointed out.

"True," Maes allowed.

"And... instructions," Roy said; "in case I'm incapacitated or something..." He watched to see if Maes would buy it. It was a new fad among young officers, Roy knew from talking with the other cadets, to leave a healthy directive, so that medical decisions could be made if a soldier was unable to express his wishes. It struck Roy as morbid and a little twisted, but it, like the fib about the girl, touched on an area that Maes might not feel comfortable discussing in a hallway.

"Oh."

Roy smirked a little. He was right: Maes didn't want to talk about it. As he brushed past and resumed his walk to class, he felt a tiny pang of guilt. Maes was watching him with a sad, haunted look in his eyes. Thinking about Ira, no doubt.

_discidium_

Okay, so there was nothing to know about the money. That didn't mean that Maes was letting Roy off the hook. There were still the letters. That alchemy text that Maes had held for him while he went looking for those bloodstained pages had had at least two dozen unopened envelopes tucked into the front cover. Maes hadn't had a chance to look at the addresses, but he couldn't help being curious. Letters in an alchemy book? Were they Roy's? His sensei's? Who had put them there, and why?

He tried to wheedle his way into the commissary storage bay, but without success. Breaking in was out of the question, and every time he tried to broach the subject with Roy he was rebuffed – humorously, if Mustang was in a good mood, and sarcastically if he wasn't. Why Roy wasn't interested in talking about the book Maes couldn't say, but after a week he found something else to wonder about. His informant in the records office told him that Cadet Mustang had quit his job at the bar.

"Why?" Maes asked. "I thought you needed the money?"

"I need the sleep more," Roy said. "Besides, if I take yard detail, I can make half what I made at the _Arms_, without having to leave campus. And I'll be done at twenty-three hundred hours."

"One question..." Maes said. "What about your goals?"

"What about them?" Roy asked.

"Well... are you still going to try for State Alchemist, or not?" Maes asked. "I mean, you've just wasted four thousand _sens_ on a lawyer—"

"It wasn't wasted!" Roy said with unexpected vehemence.

"Fine," Maes agreed softly. "Okay. But shouldn't you be planning for your life instead of your death? You're young. It'll be another two years before you'll see any combat. It's not going to do any good to dwell on this. You can't keep fixating on the fact that you could die: we all could! Any one of us, in the military or not. You can't focus on that."

Roy nodded mutely. There was a strange, vacant look in his eyes. "Did you hear the latest news from the front?" he asked.

"Aerugo?" Maes asked. "They're pulling back. We—"

Roy shook his head. "Ishbal. A group of terrorists ambushed one of our convoys – killed two hundred and eighty-one soldiers. Why do you think they hate us so much? Amestris is just trying to bring order to a wild region. Is that so terrible?"

Maes shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows," he said. "War isn't pretty, and I hear most of the combat in Ishbal is street fighting. That's harder than normal warfare: the enemy has an advantage."

"I've read the textbook, Maes," Roy said patiently. "Do you think that Fessler has?"

Maes chuckled softly. "Better not let the faculty hear you talking about a superior like that," he said. "It's_ Colonel __Fessler_. For now: word on the grapevine is he's up for promotion."

"Huh. Maybe that means he's almost finished," Roy said. "How long can it possibly take to stamp out a rebellion? They've been at it for two years!"

"People don't give up their freedom so easily," Maes told him blackly.

"We aren't asking them to give up their freedom!" Roy said. "All we want is for them to accept our laws and stop killing our people."

It was the popular consensus, but Maes wasn't sure. True, Ishbal was a region of Amestris now... but three decades ago it had been an independent state. The eastern expansion under the late Fuhrer McFarland had annexed their nation and brought it under Amestrian control, and ever since the political situation had been volatile at best. The Ishbalans were a desert people; proud, independent and deeply religious. They spurned the trappings of modernity, and their religion taught that alchemy was an abomination: an outrage against their god.

Relations between the occupying Amestrian forces and the locals had always been strained, but everyone knew that it was a single incident that had sparked the current conflict. In a moment of tension, a young soldier had lost his nerve and shot an Ishbalan child. The mishap had served as a rallying cry for dissidents across the desert nation, fanning the fires of discontent into full blown conflict.

The question of Ishbal was frequently played up in the papers and on the radio. Cinema houses showed newsreels of firefights, in which the military was always triumphant. It was talked about in the street, and it was frequent fare for the cadets, both in and out of lectures. Like Roy, many Amestrians believed that this uprising could not sustain itself much longer. The rebels would be put down, and the ordinary people would settle contentedly into life under Amestrian rule, free of the nonconformists who were winding them up into a rage. Colonel Fessler's impending promotion was a sign that victory was at hand.

Maes had his doubts. He wasn't sure that the problem could be so easily resolved. It didn't seem like a squabble between a few terrorists and the military police details. It was a clash of two vastly divergent cultures: modernity versus faith. Neither philosophy could yield to the other, nor could they compromise. And if there could be no compromise of ideals, there could be no resolution of the conflict. As for Colonel Fessler's promotion... wasn't it possible that he was being made a Brigadier General because the conflict was escalating to a scale beyond that which could be considered the realm of a colonel? Maybe they were promoting him because this wasn't just a fair-weather rebellion.

Maybe, Maes thought, this was civil war.


	16. Summer Letters

**Chapter 16: Summer Letters**

In the second week of June, Riza had a letter from Gareth Hughes. When she saw the salutation, a contrite pang of disappointment bit into her heart. She had hoped that Ben might dictate a letter to his literate brother, but instead Gareth wrote in his own words. They read:

_Dear Miss Hawkeye:_

_How lovely to hear from you! It is so Good to know that you're Well  
__and content in Central! What a surprise to learn that you are up  
There. Maes never writes these days, so we haven't had much News lately._

_To be honest, I was glad to hear you had left Hamner. You  
see, we won't be able to head North this Year, and Ben was heartbroken,  
thinking he would Disappoint you. When I showed him your Letter he  
was very proud: you're quite the Young Lady now, with a nice job and  
your own place. You're growing up so quickly! I remember when you  
were six years old, playing Cat's Cradle by our Campfire._

_Ben wants me to tell you that he's just Fine; that he's happy  
and healthy, and he hopes you are too. I don't think that's Fair. You  
deserve to Know that he hasn't been very well. He caught a Chest Cold  
before New Year's and it settled in his lungs. He hasn't Really shaken  
it yet. I'm sure he will, though. Surely he Must._

_I'm not certain if the question of his Drinking has come to mind, but I  
wanted to tell you there's no Bad news there. He hasn't gone off on a  
Jag in over a year now, and he's down to four Ounces a day when he  
doesn't have the dreams. Dad figures I shouldn't Worry you with that,  
but I think you're old enough for the Truth. And I know you love Ben dearly._

_I wish I could bring him to Central to visit you. It would do him a World  
of good, and we could see Maes, too. It won't be Possible this year, but I  
hope you'll write again. We're staying in South City this  
summer, so we'll get your letters Straight away._

_Take care of yourself. I mean, I know that you can, but  
sometimes it's Nice to be reminded how Important that is._

_Your servant, ma'am,  
__Gareth W. Hughes_

Riza liked Gareth. Ben was her bosom friend, a kindred soul who in his own dark and silent pain understood hers, but Gareth was a good man. He had been the "mother" of the family since the death of Mrs. Hughes, and Riza found his affable practicality comforting. It was he who had explained to her the lunar mysteries of womanhood, when death had left her bereft of her mother and the loving village doctor, and it was Gareth who nursed and watched over Benjamin.

Gareth's words about her companion's ill health frightened Riza. Ever since she had reached an age at which she could understand Ben's affliction, she had been haunted by an irrational fear of his death.

They had first met a year after her mother's death, when six-year-old Riza had been all but alone in the world. Her father had no use for her. Eleven-year-old Roy was busy with his alchemy studies and with his own friend to have much time to spend with a little girl. One day Riza, anxious to be free of the gloomy house and the morose old man in his study, had followed him down to the tinkers' camp in the woods. She had known that she wasn't wanted by the boys, but she had so desperately needed a break from the close atmosphere at home. And there, in the clearing above the creek bluffs, she had met Ben. He hadn't made any demands, but accepted her quiet nature with the ease that came from true understanding of it. He had taught her cat's cradle, and the tricks of the forest, and how to wield a sling and throw a push knife. As she grew older, he had listened to her read, they had talked of history (which Riza knew well) and of travel (which was in Ben's realm of experience). They understood each other. They comforted each other. They cared about each other.

But Ben was old – forty-six years old, in fact. He was sad and tired and he had been ill for so long that Riza wasn't sure that he had ever been well. Already there was a trail of dead loved ones through Riza's short life: her older brother Davell, whom she scarcely remembered; her mother; Doctor Bella Greyson; Mordred Hawkeye... was Ben next?

The matter was still weighing heavily on her mind when Mr. Mustang came to visit her on Thursday evening.

"Maes is livid," he said, chatting in his easy way as he sat on cross-legged on the rickety chair in her room. "He wanted Criminal Investigations for his placement, and instead they stuck him in Education Admin. I don't think I'm ever going to hear the end of it!"

Riza had no idea what he was talking about. "Placement?" she asked quietly, adjusting her seat on the bed. Sometimes it was nice just to listen to the sound of Mr. Mustang's voice, but tonight she was worrying about Ben and she was annoyed by the fact that she couldn't understand what the young soldier was saying.

"His practical placement. See, cadets spend part of the summer stationed somewhere off of campus. In second year, it's usually with the MPs or an enlisted battalion near the city. Third year's an administrative rotation in government."

"What about fourth year?" Riza asked, her interest suddenly sparked.

"Battlefield, normally," Mr. Mustang said. "Not the front lines, of course, but certainly out in the field."

Riza wasn't sure she liked the sound of that. "The battlefield is a dangerous place," she said.

Mr. Mustang chuckled darkly. "The world's a dangerous place," he countered. "I'll be all right. Besides, it's three years away."

Riza rolled her eyes at him. "I'm not worried about _you_!" she said teasingly, hoping that he would not realize that that was a lie.

_discidium_

On the last day of June, Mrs. Oakley's daughter came home from finishing school. In the days leading up to her arrival, her mother was busy preparing her bedroom and planning her favourite meals. She tried to conceal her effervescent excitement, but Orson was under no such restriction. He walked around with a perpetual grin on his face, and he spoke enthusiastically about Sis and her many virtues. Riza thought it was very sweet to watch his gleeful anticipation. It was obvious that he loved his older sister very much.

He left early to pick her up at the train station. Mrs. Oakley was arranging an assortment of carnations, and Riza was working in the office. She had managed to instil a certain degree of order on the little room: files were properly arranged, by date and type; the desk was clear, the ledgers catalogued. Riza could not help but wonder whether she would still be needed once the work was complete – whether it was in her best interest to finish or not. Regardless, she decided that she had to finish. She was too determined to leave a job half done, even if it meant doing herself out of employment.

"Riza! Come outside with me!" Mrs. Oakley exclaimed from the front of the shop. Riza hurried to obey. The blue truck was parked on the curb, and Orson was hurrying around it to open the door for a young lady.

She was nineteen years old – the same age as the Armstrong son with whom she had nursed. She was much taller than her mother, slender and pretty, dressed in a plain but stylish dress. Her hair, which was a pale auburn, hung down past her shoulder blades. She kissed Orson's cheek, and then turned to Mrs. Oakley.

"Mama!" she said happily. The two women embraced, Mrs. Oakley asking anxiously after her daughter's welfare and the journey from North City. At length, the young lady turned. "And who is this?" she asked, smiling broadly.

"This is Riza," Mrs. Oakley said. "She's a wizard with the books! You won't be cleaning up my mess this summer!"

"I'm glad to meet you, Riza!" The young woman said, holding out a soft hand for Riza to take.

"Likewise, Miss Oakley," Riza said politely.

The girl smiled amicably. "Oh, please, that's so formal!" she said. "Call me Gracia!"

_discidium_

Miss Oakley was a lovely girl. She was intelligent and well-mannered, with the meticulous and yet carefree style of a boarding-school patron. Her clothes were all charming, with a simple elegance that spoke of good taste. On her second day home, she came downstairs while Riza was giving Katrina her lessons. They were reading a primer together, while baby Mikey sat on the floor of the little office, playing with a wooden spoon. Miss Oakley sat down next to him and drew him into his lap.

"Hello, buddy," she cooed softly, then smiled up at the desk. "Is he yours, Riza?"

"Oh, no! _No_!" Riza said, flushing furiously. "No, I'm only thirteen..."

"He's mine," Katrina said happily, swinging her legs so that her bare toes grazed the floor. "He's my little boy."

"And a fine little boy he is, too," said Miss Oakley, bouncing the child a little so that he giggled. Then she hugged him, sniffing his hair fondly. "I love babies."

"He's a very good baby," Riza put in quietly. She loved Mikey, too. She almost _did_ wish that he were hers, even though she was too young, and not married. She wanted a baby...

"I'd like a dozen," Miss Oakley said, as if she could read Riza's thoughts. Mikey bounced in her lap and tried to climb her with his wee little feet and his chubby legs. "_The old woman sits at the tub, tub-tub. The dirty clothes to scrub, scrub-scrub. But when they are cle-ee-ean, and fit to be se-ee-een, she'll dress like a lady and dance on the green!_"

Miss Oakley had a big sister's endless repertoire of nursery rhymes, and Riza, who scarcely remembered the few that she had learned in the distant days before her mother's illness, delighted in listening to them. She decided that she rather liked the older girl.

_discidium_

The summer waxed. Mr. Mustang was busy at the Academy, where the first-years who would soon be second-years were receiving intensive training now that the university courses were finished. Riza had less work to do at the flower shop, because even though business was booming she had finished with the organization of the old files. So she found herself spending more time in the flower shop with Miss Oakley and her daughter.

"I have another year left," Miss Oakley said on one balmy afternoon in July. She was trimming fern leaves for a bride's bouquet. "Then I'll have a diploma and my history degree. What about you, Riza? Mama tells me you've got a head for numbers."

Riza nodded modestly. "I'm not bad," she admitted. "I have my school diploma."

"Have you thought about university?" asked Gracia. "I know it's expensive, but—"

"I've thought about it," Riza said. It was something that she had never admitted to anyone but Mr. Mustang. It felt oddly liberating to confide in another girl. "I'm going to join the military."

"You are?" Gracia said, in some amazement. "Just like Captain Armstrong."

Riza smiled. The other girl understood!

"Miss Livvy and my sister were the same age," said Miss Oakley. "We all used to play together: Miss Livvy and Master Alex and Henrietta and me. Miss Livvy was never afraid of anything, and she was very determined. I think she'd be a very good soldier."

"I'm determined, too," Riza said stoutly. "And stubborn."

She half expected the well-bred young lady to be offended. Instead, Gracia smiled. "Then I'm sure you'll make a good soldier, too."

It was strange, but somehow this polite expression of confidence bolstered Riza's spirits and helped to stiffen her resolve. Her goal, which had been slowly crystallizing over the past few months, now seemed just a little more tangible.

_discidium_

It was Gracia who decided that Riza needed new clothes. The two skirts and four blouses that Riza had brought from Hamner were shabby and hopelessly too small. The hems rode up to her knees, and the buttons strained to hold the garments closed. Riza protested that she couldn't afford to buy new things, but Gracia was insistent.

"They don't need to be expensive," she said, herding Riza out of the flower shop and up the street. "They just need to fit you properly, and you'll look beautiful."

So Riza reluctantly took the seven hundred _sens_ from her clothespress – the money that Mr. Mustang had been given by Brigadier General Grumman. She had hoped to save it to give to Mr. Mustang to help pay for his State Alchemist examination, but she could no longer ignore the fact that her clothes were scarcely functional.

Miss Oakley brought her to a little second-hand boutique. The girl behind the counter was a childhood friend, and the two of them had great fun fussing over Riza and dressing her up like a doll. Riza knew that their talk was frivolous and silly... but it was nice to be fussed over and treated like one of the girls. Femininity had not featured largely in her life, and this world of ruffled cuffs and delicate collars was foreign to her.

In the end, she was suited up with three full changes of clothes, as well as a couple of spare blouses. It all came to less than six hundred _sens_, and the clothes were three sizes too large. Gracia's friend took growth tucks in the seams to fit them to Riza's slender body: the tucks could be let out as she grew, to ensure that the clothes would fit for a few years. That was all that Riza needed. In a little over a year, she would enrol in the Academy, and then she wouldn't need civilian clothes.

The summer waned. Gracia Oakley went back to school, fading out of Riza's life like a summer breeze. Katrina Harris was starting to learn subtraction. Mr. Mustang visited twice a week, less pale and far better rested than Riza had seen him in a long time. And another letter came in Gareth Hughes' hand. This time, however, the words were Ben's:

_Dear Riza,_

_Gareth's writing to you for me. I hope you like it in Central._

_We're living in South City right now. I don't much like it: it's too  
__ busy, and there are so many people. Still, I'm glad it's not  
East City. We were in East City last fall, and things are tense there.  
Worries about Ishbal, I think. Everybody's on edge._

_Riza, I don't want you to worry about me. I know Gareth told  
you I've been sick, but it's nothing. Just a stupid cold. Please  
don't worry, Riza._

_I hope you still have time to read your books. I wish you didn't have  
to work – but maybe that's not right. I mean, it's important to work  
and to contribute. Sometimes I wonder if I'd taken a  
trade like the boys, if maybe I'd be happier._

_I hope I'll see you soon, Riza. Maybe in the spring we can  
come out to see you, and Maes. I don't know. I hope so._

_Ben_


	17. Nymphs of the Night

_Excerpts from "Hello My Baby" (c) Ida Emerson. _

**Chapter 17: Nymphs of the Night**

Third class cadets did not bunk in the barracks. One week before the new class arrived in August they were moved into the dormitories, two to a room. They had no choice of roommate, of course. That privilege was reserved for the senior year alone.

Maes Hughes _never_ broke the rules. On occasion, though, he bent them to extremes. He was bored to tears with his work in Education Administration, where he had been put to work evaluating textbooks in search of one that would make an appropriate national standard for student teachers taking courses in teaching Amestrian history. True, the rotation could have been worse: some of his classmates were in the Excise and Customs office, others had been placed in Railroad Maintenance. One poor sucker was with the Committee for Legislative Oversights. Six damned lucky devils were in Criminal Investigations: four in the Department of Law Enforcement for Central City, and two with the military police, looking into court martial allegations and other internal affairs.

The one up side was that the dull nature of the rotation left him a lot of time to lavish on bending the rules. Specifically, the rule stating that fourth-year cadets could chose their roommate. The implication was that they would choose someone from their own class, but that wasn't how Maes was interested in playing. He devised his campaign with care. He pointed out that the female cadets often had to bunk with an upper-year. He noted that there were a hundred and ninety-three men entering their second year, so _someone_ had to be put with an older cadet. Maes Hughes had tenacity that was matched only by his charisma, and both served him very well. He buttered up the officers in the housing office, and flattered the Major General until the man's ego threatened to carry the roof off of the faculty building. In the end, he came forth triumphant, signed billeting orders in hand.

So Roy Mustang left his exhausting first year and the hated barracks behind, and moved into a corner room of Dormitory III. When he arrived with his uniforms over his arm and his kit in his hand, his new roommate grinned languidly, green eyes glittering with mischief.

"Let's see how often you sneak out _now_!" Maes teased.

It wasn't a threat, but Roy would not have cared if it had been. As if sleeping in a real bedroom instead of a warehouse wasn't marvellous enough, he was now living with his best friend – the one man on earth he trusted absolutely.

In their decade's acquaintance the two young men had only spent one night together. They had passed it in an old quarry, Maes debilitated by a broken leg, and Roy unwilling to leave him alone. So their first few weeks together had an air of novelty about them, and they learned a good deal more about each other than either would have thought there was left to know.

Roy learned that Maes often fell asleep with his spectacles still on his nose, that he held his toothbrush with his left hand rather than his right, and that he made soft wheezing noises in lieu of snoring. Maes learned that Roy would wake up at two in the morning and lie there for hours playing with the air in the room, that he even _shaved _(what little colourless down he _had_ to shave) using the approved military technique, and that he talked in his sleep.

"Who's Wolfgang?" Maes asked one morning, still sprawled out under his bedclothes even though it was almost oh-six-thirty.

Roy, who had been up and moving around since before reveille, looked up from squaring the corners on his own bed. "Wolfgang?" he echoed, puzzled.

"Yeah. You were talking about him last night."

Last night... the conversation had flitted from Roy's fitness testing (where he had weighed in at a mammoth one hundred and twenty-three pounds!) to Maes and his requirements for his criminology degree. "No I wasn't," Roy argued.

"Oh, that's _right_," Maes mocked. "You probably wouldn't remember: you were unconscious at the time, after all."

Roy glowered at him. "I do _not_ talk in my sleep," he grated.

"Maybe," sang Maes. "But Wolfgang begs to differ. So who is he? If my best friend is dreaming about another man, I have a right to hear some details!"

"It's nothing," Roy said, embarrassed to think that Maes had caught him talking in his sleep. It didn't happen very often – usually only when he had something on his mind – but he had been needled more than once by his neighbours in the barracks.

"Good," Maes countered. "Then you have no reason not to tell me."

"He was a composer from South City, that's all."

"I never figured you for a music lover," Maes reflected sagely.

"I'm not," Roy said. "Not really." The truth was that music, like many of the pleasures of youth, had not figured largely in his life. He knew half a dozen campfire songs – repetitive and humorous – that he had learned from the Hughes clan, and a couple of bawdy ballads that were popular among the cadets, but that was the extent of his repertoire. He had never been to a concert, or listened to a gramophone, and his encounters with the radio were few and far between. Aside from the effort he had put into comparing two requiem librettos, Roy had not had much exposure to real music.

"Huh. Too bad," said Maes. "'Cause there's this swing bar by the river that I've been itching show you."

Roy shook his head.

Maes put on his sick puppy look. "Aw... why not?"

"I'm saving my money, not drinking it," Roy said sourly. Truth be told, he would've loved a good stiff drink. Draining the dregs from the customers' glasses had been the one good thing about working at the _Dockman's_ _Arms_.

"You're a miser!" Maes chuckled.

"Am not!" Roy countered. "I'm just goal-oriented!"

"_Sure_ you are. Don't worry, King Midas. I'll foot the bill."

_discidium_

Maes had called it a bar, but the place, called _Cleopatra's_, was a far cry from the establishments Roy was familiar with. For one thing, it was on the north side of the river. In a disparity typical of Central's great green divider, the business was not four hundred yards from the noxious slums of the southern docks, but it was situated in a clean, well-lit and trendy street. The neat storefront with coloured bulbs spelling out the name was situated between a confectionary and a higher-end off-the-rack haberdasher. It had a red awning that was not in the least faded, nor torn at all, and the abstract stained glass windows glowed like clusters of jewels from the light within.

As the two cadets alighted from the streetcar, an aerodynamic Gatsby Coupe pulled up to the curb with a whisper of expensive brakes. A young man in a black tuxedo hopped out and danced around the costly automobile to open the passenger door for his companion. She was a willowy seminude beauty swathed in a revealing frock of gas-blue silk. Her slender neck was weighted down with two ropes of pearls that would have raised enough money in hock to buy and sell Roy Mustang six times over. The cadet stopped short in the midst of the street, gawking like an idiot.

Maes saw his expression in the light of the streetlamps and laughed softly. "Never seen a woman before?" he teased.

Not like _that_ one he hadn't, but that was the least of Roy's worries. "Look how they're dressed!" he hissed. "We can't go in there!"

Maes laughed, clapping his friend on his blue-clad arm just below the shoulderboard. "Brother, trust me. If there's one thing you can wear anywhere and everywhere in this town, it's the uniform."

"Shouldn't we have come in dress?" Roy persisted as the tuxedo tails vanished into the building.

"Only if we wanted to look like country bumpkins from Eastern Academy," said Maes scornfully. "Trust me. We'll fit right in."

Roy didn't believe a word of it, and as soon as he crossed the threshold he had his proof that he didn't belong here. _Cleopatra's_ was nothing like the _Arms_. The walls were of clean white paint, not dusky panelling. Instead of ugly oil paintings of questionable provenance, the walls were hung with jewel-coloured _art nouveau _prints of smooth-lipped women with curling tendrils of hair. There were no booths, but instead small circular tables with candle-bearing centrepieces. The dominant feature was not a long wooden bar, but a raised stage in the corner, where five musicians and a vocalist – all in identical suits with orange waistcoats – sat chatting between sets. There was a dance floor in front of the stage, where a few young couples were milling.

The room was full of patrons. Most were between Roy's age and Maes's: university students and young businessmen and wealthy loafers. Roy saw at once that his garb was not out of place: there were at least a dozen other soldiers present. A few he recognized from the Academy. There were two enlisted men. The others were second lieutenants with swaggering walks and toothy smiles. The civilian men were dressed in a variety of clothing, from casual shirtsleeves and vests to tailored tuxedos with cashmere scarves. As for the women...

The women. Roy had never seen women like these. They were not the rock-hard girls of the National Academy, with their broad shoulders and their powerful legs. Nor were they the lean, hungry females of the slums. Nor the wholesome country damsels that he remembered from the village of Hamner. These were ethereal creatures with long legs and slender arms. Their clothes were of richly coloured silks and chiffon that fell in pleated folds from daringly bared shoulders, or draped under a dangerously décolleté neckline that left no doubt that these ladies were wearing very little indeed beneath their frocks. Their shoes clicked when they walked, and their hips swung seductively. Each time Roy thought he had seen the most beautiful of these nymphs of the night, another one passed by, still more stunning than the last.

Maes found them a table, and put in a drink order with a smart-looking waiter. He watched in amusement as Roy took in his surroundings, staring now at a pair of milky shoulder blades framed in blue satin, now at a neck caressed with spit-curls, now at a plump, seductive mouth painted into a crimson gash. The younger cadet was so rapt in the scenery that he hardly even noticed when the waiter came with the whiskey.

"I brought you here for the music, not to catch a wife!" Maes chuckled presently. "You look like you want to eat them."

"I bet they'd taste good," Roy said impudently, diverting his attention from the silvery laugh of an impossibly blonde young lady in an aubergine evening dress.

"Gah! You sound like Eli!" Maes snorted. His drink was a lurid shade of green, and looked to be at least two-thirds shaved ice. He sampled the cocktail, and then held it out to Roy. "Want to try it?"

Mustang shook his head. "I'm fine with the scotch," he said. He drew in a mouthful and let it sublime on his tongue. It was hard not to let loose a sound of pleasure. Maes hadn't skimped. It was the good stuff. "Thanks," Roy told his friend when he could speak again.

"Hey, there, soldier," a sultry voice cooed. A sloe-eyed beauty sidled up and curled an arm around Maes's shoulder. "Home from the front?"

Maes laughed pleasantly, and lifted her arm off of his jacket, over his head, and away from his body. "No, I'm at the Academy," he said. "No action for me."

"Aw, don't say that!" The girl reached out to a neighbouring table, and snagged a chair from a neighbouring table. She sat down between the two cadets and leaned towards Maes. "They say the Academy boys are all work and no play."

Maes smiled politely. "That's right," he said. He looked over his shoulder at the stage. "I wonder when the next set starts. What do you think, Roy?"

"I have no idea..." Roy said hesitantly, not sure why Maes was effectively ignoring the girl. She was gorgeous.

"I'm a student, too," she said, leaning in closer. "I'm studying the liberal arts."

"That must be lovely for you," Maes said. "Hey, Roy, refresh my memory. What's regulation 1764-D?"

"Are you kidding me?" Roy blurted out. There was a beautiful woman practically begging Maes for attention, and here he wanted to quote regs?

"Nope. Regulation 1764-D."

Roy rolled his eyes. "If an officer shall be found to be guilty of negligence in command, especially such negligence as is deemed to have caused substantial loss of life within his unit with or without marked casualties on the part of the enemy, the officer shall be subject to further investigation to determine whether there is cause to allege gross negligence. Where such an investigation is deemed to be warranted, the officer shall be suspended from service without pay. If—"

The girl sighed in exasperation and swished away to the other side of the room, where she immediately struck up a conversation with a pair of young, blonde fops. Roy turned his attention on Maes.

"You scared her off!" he exclaimed. "Why did..."

He stopped. Maes was wearing a look of enormous relief.

"Thanks!" he exhaled gratefully. "I don't know what's wrong with the women: I can't go _anywhere _without them swarming all over me. It's creepy."

"Well, maybe you've inherited Eli's charm," Roy teased.

Maes moaned. "God forbid! The last thing I want is a girl for every day of the month!"

"Cadet Hughes!"

Maes looked up at another young goddess, who had come up behind him and was now smiling silkily. "Oh, hi, Nancy," he said uneasily.

"They're tuning up," she said, jerking her thumb over one shapely shoulder towards the band, who did indeed look almost ready to play. "Why don't you ask me to dance?"

Maes's eyebrows crinkled helplessly. Roy saw an opportunity.

"He twisted his ankle during morning calisthenics," he said, getting to his feet as smoothly as he could and offering his hand. "I, however, would be delighted if you would consent to dance with me."

The girl laughed a little, and then nodded. "I'd like that," she said.

The band picked up a jaunty tune. Several other couples launched into action. Roy hesitated, not sure what to do. Nancy chuckled softly. "Let me," she said, planting one of his hands on her waist and clasping his other one. She stepped out onto the floor and began to dance. Roy fumbled through the first couple of steps, but quickly caught on. After all, it was no more difficult than hand-to-hand combat or military martial arts.

On the stage, the singer launched cheerfully into the song:

"_Hello, my baby!  
Hello, my honey!  
Hello my ragtime gal!  
Send me a kiss by wire...  
Baby, my heart's on fire!  
If you refuse me, honey, you'll lose me,  
Then you'll be left alone.  
So baby come on, and tell me  
I'm your own!"_

_discidium_

Roy had found a new hobby. He had never imagined that acting his age could've been so fun. Friday nights, he now made a habit of going into the city with Maes. They would have a few drinks, laugh together, and whenever a woman tried to put the moves on Hughes, Mustang was there to conveniently distract her. It was a symbiotic relationship: the girls were drawn to Maes's obvious self-confidence and glowing charisma, but Roy knew how to entertain them. Better still, he enjoyed it. Dancing with them, flirting with them, trading stories of the Academy for anecdotes about their college classes or their friends or their parents – it was fun. There was no need for commitment or emotional involvement: they merely enjoyed one another's company, and then they went their separate ways.

It never occurred to Roy that his flings with the young beauties of Central might be at odds with his feelings about Riza. He was ignorant of the morality of love, for no one had ever bothered to teach it to him. In his seventeen-year-old innocence, there seemed to be no comparison between the girls with whom he danced and drank, and the quiet and dedicated young woman he visited twice every week. He loved Riza with all his heart, and wanted to protect her and help her and keep watch over her. These other girls... he enjoyed their company. He liked looking into their painted eyes, and watching the twitching of their crimson lips, and stealing glances at the tops of their breasts. He imagined kissing them and squeezing the soft parts of their bodies and resting his head in their fragrant hair. But he didn't worry about their futures, or wonder what they were doing on a Tuesday afternoon while he sat in a Tactics lecture. These girls and Riza Hawkeye belonged to two different worlds, and it never occurred to him to compare them or to analyse his feelings for either.

It didn't occur to him, either, that by living in these two disparate worlds – the practical one steering towards a brilliant future and a golden dream that he shared with Riza, and the frivolous and fantastical one populated by nubile flirts – he was in effect cultivating two personalities. Both personae suited him in their own way, and he slipped from one to the other as adeptly as an actor changes masks, or a chameleon changes colours. The difference was that as the months progressed the fact that both people were equally Roy Mustang became more and more evident.


	18. Tools of the Trade

**Chapter 18: Tools of the Trade**

When a sixteen-year-old farm boy enlisted as a non-commissioned officer in the Amestrian military, the first thing he was issued was a uniform. The second was a sidearm. By the end of their sixteen weeks of training, NCOs were turned loose on the battlefield, heavily armed and ready for action.

Ironically, cadets at the National Academy did not get their hands on a gun until they had been studying for eighteen months. They had intensive theoretical training on the proper use of firearms, their role in distance and proximity combat, and even the mechanical structure of the weapons used in the military, but it was January of his second year before Roy actually held a pistol in his hands. Even then, it was two weeks of field stripping, cleaning, and pouring simple bullets from scraps of lead before the class was allowed onto the firing range in groups of twelve.

Captain Douglas was the arms instructor; a short, broad-shouldered man whose red air was cropped in a severe crew cut. He had removed his uniform jacket, and rolled up the sleeves of the white shirt despite the chill of the morning. He prowled up the line of cadets, tapping his gleaming Luger against his palm. A table bearing twelve similar pieces waited near the booths, and Roy knew that several of his compatriots were eyeing them hungrily.

"Now, I understand how it feels to be where you are now," Douglas said gravely. "You're eighteen, nineteen, twenty years old. You think you're immortal. Nothing in the world can hurt you, and certainly no nine-inch conglomeration of gears and steel. Well, guess what, you cocksure kids! You're wrong."

He brandished his gun so that it gleamed in the winter sunlight. "Beautiful, isn't she?" he asked. "Beautiful and deadly. A shot from one of these things can rip your eye socket into a pulpy hole. It can shatter your hard pallet and make filet mignon of your brains. It can rip between your ribs and drive right into your heart. Or dig a crater in your leg that'll fester with gangrene until we have to chop it off. This baby is not a toy. It's not a joke. It's a thirty-one-ounce killing machine."

He slid the luger into his hip holster. Then he plucked up his shirt and hoisted it to reveal a triangle of bare chest, and a star-shaped scar just below his left floating rib. He jabbed at it with an emphatic finger.

"This was the handiwork of a smart-ass cadet who thought he knew better than the seasoned vet who was teaching him," he said. "One extraction and three surgeries later, and I still break wind like a rheumatic old woman."

Snickers ran up the line, but only softly. Douglas was glaring murderously at them.

"You treat your gun with respect, and it'll be good to you," he said. "You'll learn how to trust it. It'll be your best damned friend. Treat it with disrespect, and you're not going to live long enough to trust anybody."

He jammed his shirt back into his waistband, pausing for effect.

"I know you don't believe me," he sneered. "Because I'm an officer. Because I'm an old man. Because, let's face it, what else am I going to say? But I'll tell you this. If I catch anyone horsing around with the pistols, it'll be twenty laps and latrine duty for a month. If in the course of these lessons any of you are _harmed_ as a result of juvenile shenanigans, every single one of you will be expelled. Do I make myself clear?"

"Sir, yes sir!" the twelve young men chorused.

"Fine." Douglas seemed to relax. "That being said, have a good time. There's nothing quite like the satisfaction of nailing your target, and by the end of these five weeks, I promise every damned one of you will be able to do that. Single file, please, and take a piece."

_discidium_

Maes came out of the tiny water closet with a basin of warm water and set it on the bedside table. He took a vial from between his teeth, and poured a little into the water.

"What's that?" Roy asked, squinting through his discomfort and clutching his right wrist.

"Tincture of arnica," said Maes. "Gare sent some in his last care package. It's good for muscle aches."

"How 'bout muscle _death_," Roy countered sourly.

Maes chuckled. "It's not dying," he said. "It's just stiff. Give it here."

Roy shook his head. Not to be so easily dissuaded, Maes seized the sore hand and plunged it into the water. Once it was immersed, he began working his thumbs into his friend's stiffening palm, digging at the spasming muscles.

"Ow, _ow_, Maes!" Roy yelped, trying half-heartedly to pull away – half-heartedly because he had to admit, at least to himself, that it felt kind of good.

"Hey, I told you to practice with the rubber ball," Maes said, no apology in his voice. "Why the hell d'you think they issued the damned things?"

"We're supposed to do this _again_ tomorrow," Roy moaned. "I'm not going to be able to button my fly, let alone pull a trigger."

"No comment," Maes said dryly. "You'll loosen up after a few days. You just need more strength in your hands: they're flabby like a girl's."

"Are not! We were out there for two hours! Don't they oil those things?" It was a rhetorical question: Roy and the rest of the second-years had spent weeks learning how to lubricate weapons properly. He wriggled his last two fingers tentatively. They weren't as sore as the others, which were now starting to cramp up excruciatingly.

Maes laughed. "You think this is bad, just wait 'til you get to the swords. Old man Crawford's a sadist."

Roy grimaced. "I'm going to be a State Alchemist," he said. "Why do I have to learn how to use a sword?"

"Because." For a moment Roy thought Maes was stopping the explanation there, but then he realized that his friend was waiting for him to look up so that he could fix him with a grave stare. "There hasn't been a single officer in Amestrian history who made it past Colonel without learning how to use one. You want to change the world, fine. But to do that you need rank. And to get rank, you need to know how to use a sword. Got me?"

Roy rolled his eyes. "You know," he said; "if they don't want you in Criminal Investigations, you could always go in for a career in guidance counselling."

"Hah. I've already got a practice!" Maes rejoined. "A very exclusive one, mind you: Cadet Mustang's my only client." He let go of Roy's wrist and tossed him a hand towel, followed rapidly by the red rubber ball. "Squeeze that one hundred times fast, once an hour on the hour. Once the agony goes away, you'll be able to crack walnuts in your fist."

Roy favoured him with a long, exasperated glare. He didn't want to crack walnuts, he just wanted to get through ballistics training. And (he shuddered at the thought of aged Lt. Colonel Crawford's disciplinarian glare) swordplay.

_discidium_

On Riza's fourteenth birthday, Roy took her out for supper. They went to a proper restaurant, with real table linens and a waiter who came right to the table. Roy had only been in such a place once or twice, and for Riza it was a wholly new experience. He watched with pleasure as her carmine eyes took in her surroundings with wonder. She looked very becoming in her new dress – which of course was a second-hand dress that a friend of her employer's daughter had taken in for her – with her short hair like a fine cap of golden silk.

They ate quietly, exchanging snippets of conversation between bites of very nice roast chicken with southern vegetables. There was very little to do in the flower shop in the winter, Riza told him, and she had been doing much more tutoring lately. Roy couldn't imagine trying to teach a seven-year-old how to read. At the age of seven, he had been entirely illiterate, recognizing only the letter "U", and he still struggled with the reading level expected of a cadet. He admired Riza's gift for written language, and even envied it. She was probably a very good teacher, he thought, and he told her so.

Oddly enough, she flushed a little. "I'm not, really," she demurred. "But Kat can't go to school, of course, because somebody has to take care of Mikey. So I guess I'm better than nothing."

Roy wanted to point out that she had taught _him_ a lot of things, in those early days when he had first come to live in her family's home, but he stopped himself. If he didn't talk about those days, maybe it would be as if they had never happened. He was ashamed of where he had come from, and he hated to think about it. The other cadets boasted of their families and their childhood adventures – even those who had no wealth were proud of their parents and the accomplishments of their siblings. Mustang, on the other hand, had nothing to boast about.

Nothing but Riza... but then, she wasn't his accomplishment. He had no claim to be a part of her triumphs. He had not made her the strong, brave young lady that she was.

At the end of the meal, Roy leaned towards her, pressing the tips of his fingers together. "Riza, we need to talk."

"About what, Mr. Mustang?" she asked. The words were formal, but the delivery was not. She was comfortable in his presence. She trusted him.

"I know that in the fall... you thought you wanted to join the military."

"I _do_ want to join the military," Riza said. There was a hint of defiance in her voice.

"Well, that's what we need to talk about. I'll sign the permission form for you to enrol in the Academy at fourteen, but you still need a letter of endorsement from an officer. A lieutenant colonel or better, if you're going to be eligible to attend here." Roy braced himself. He knew she wouldn't like what he was going to suggest, but he couldn't see any other solution. "Brigadier General Grumman is due to return from the front in March. I'll go to him and see if he'd be willing to support your application. I know you don't want anything to do with him, but he wrote on my behalf and I'm sure he'd be willing to—" He stopped, the bewildered, cornered expression on Riza's face reigning him in short.

"I don't... I don't want that," she said.

"Why not?" Roy asked softly. "He's a good man. I promise you, he's a good man."

"I... I know that. I believe you." She didn't. He could see in her eyes that she was lying: she didn't believe he was a good man at all. She was afraid of him, and Roy couldn't understand why, but a nagging voice in the back of his head insisted that it had something to do with Hawkeye-sensei.

"Riza, you wouldn't have to see him. You wouldn't have to talk to him. I'd just—"

"_No_," Riza said firmly. "I don't want to have anything to do with him. I can take care of myself. I can figure this out myself."

"How?" Roy asked.

Riza swallowed so hard that he could see the strain on her white throat. "I don't know."

Roy closed his eyes. "Okay," he said. "I could talk to my instructors. They like me. Maybe someone would be willing to do me a favour—"

Riza shook her head. "That's very kind," she said; "but I'll figure something out. On my own."

She fixed him with a steady gaze, and in the twin pools of crimson, Roy recognized something very familiar. It was the stubborn streak that he remembered so well: the same stubborn streak that had convinced two adults grieving the death of their only son to take a beggar boy into their home. Riza had always been impossible to sway once she set her mind to something.

"All right," he said. "You let me know if you change your mind."

"I won't," Riza assured him primly.

And damn it if he didn't believe her.

_discidium_

One week before the lessons in swordplay were to begin, Lt. Colonel Crawford suffered a heart attack while working with a group of first-classmen. He was rushed into the city, and given the very best care, and within a week he was resting on a regular ward at the military hospital. What was obvious, however, was that he would not be doing any more teaching this term. Roy was relieved beyond words. He hated ballistics, and he had a feeling that swords were probably worse than guns.

Two days before the lessons had been scheduled, an announcement was posted in the mess hall. Alternate arrangements had been made for those cadets enrolled in blade combat training. A locum had been engaged: a soldier recalled from the western front to temporarily fill Crawford's place. The lessons would proceed as scheduled, and a list of the rotations was posted. Roy and nine others were to report on Thursday afternoon.

When Roy arrived in the small gymnasium, he saw that the instructor had not yet arrived. Six of his classmates – one of them female – were already present, and had shucked their uniforms in favour of the padded white fencing gear. There was a rack of wicked-looking katanas along one wall, and next to it stood an identical rack bearing rattan canes with wooden crosspieces. Roy exchanged hearty greetings with his classmates, and moved to the pegs bearing the coveralls. He changed quickly, but by the time he was finished the other three young men had arrived. They, too, were dressed and waiting by the time the gymnasium door finally swung open and an unexpected sight strode through it.

It was a woman, shorter than Roy with a petite but powerful build. She moved like a tigress, with coiled precision. Her hair was a white-gold waterfall of silk, cascading down her back and falling over her face so that it obscured one side of her sculpted jaw, part of her perfect nose, and the corner of her generous, dark mouth. Almost as an afterthought, he noted that she was wearing a duty uniform with captain's epaulettes.

"Ten-SHUN!" she barked, reminding the nine gawking men to follow Cadet Martins' example and snap into crisp salutes. The female officer regarded them with cold disdain. "Pitiful," she sneered. "I've seen straighter spines on the hunchbacks at the circus."

She came forward, moving down the line like a huntress, her hooded eyes assessing each cadet with haughty indifference. Her left hand rested on the hilt of a sword that hung against one trim hip. She stopped in front of Cadet Martins.

"Square those shoulders, soldier!" she snapped. The younger woman tried to obey. "Push the small of your back towards your navel, and tighten your buttocks."

Cadet Naugler, who was standing next to Roy, snickered. Instantly the ice-blue eyes were boring into him. "Something funny, Cadet?" she demanded.

"No, miss," said Naugler, his disrespect thinly veiled.

A second later, he was on his back. The blonde captain had seized his wrist and thrown him over her shoulder with the ease of a wrestling champion.

"After class, you and I are going to run a few laps of the parade grounds," she informed him coolly. "Anyone else who wants to call me 'miss' is more than welcome to join us." She looked disdainfully at Naugler. "Get up."

She strode up the line again, as confident as if she had been born in those gleaming combat boots. Now that the shock of seeing such a person in uniform was wearing off, Roy realized she was _gorgeous_. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen, and she exuded an aura of unfettered power and fearlessness that was even more astonishing than her looks. _This_, he realized, was what a commanding officer was meant to be: strong and bold and the epitome of confidence.

"I am Captain Armstrong," she was saying. "On TDY from the nineteenth regiment, currently stationed on the Creda border. I was pulled from the battlefield because you jackasses apparently drove your other instructor into heart failure."

"Heart attack, ma'am," Roy called out in the requisite military deadpan.

She wheeled on him. "What was that, Cadet?" she purred.

"It was a heart attack, ma'am, that took Colonel Crawford out of commission," Roy said, keeping his spine straight and his shoulders squared. She was intimidating as hell – but he was damned if he'd let her see it. He dared to curl his lip up ever so slightly into a tiny smirk. "And he wasn't our instructor, ma'am. This is our first lesson."

"Name, Cadet!" barked the captain.

"Mustang, ma'am!"

"Mustang, _sir_!"

The smirk grew ever so slightly. "Mustang, sir!" he repeated crisply.

For a fraction of a second, her confidence wavered. Roy could almost hear the thoughts behind the instant of weakness. He was meant to fear her. Why wasn't he afraid?

He _was_ afraid. But he was also determined. Someday, he was going to be a high-ranking officer. Far above a captain. And when that day came, he was going to need a spine of steel, just like this mettlesome patrician beauty. Now was a perfect opportunity to practice.

She turned on her heel and marched up the line again. "Who instructed you to appear out of uniform?" she demanded, addressing the group as a whole.

"Sir, they're the fencing costumes, sir!" Cadet Martins said.

"I see. And will you be wearing fencing costumes when you face down enemies in the battlefield, Cadet?" Armstrong demanded.

"Sir, no sir!"

"Then there is no place for them here! In future, you will all report in full uniform! I'm here to prepare you for the real world, not for playing kiss-in-the-ring at the Fuhrer's garden parties! No helmets, no masks, no pretty white jumpsuits! Colonel Crawford might have let you get away with that nonsense, but then again he's flat on his back in a hospital bed now, isn't he?" She glared at them as if they were the scum of the earth. "Now pair off and take a sword."

Naugler and Lumley nodded at one another and started for the rack of rattan "weapons". Armstrong cleared her throat.

"Are you going to be using those against the Credoans?" she asked sweetly.

"No, sir!" barked Lumley.

"Or the Aerugans?"

"No, sir..."

"Well, perhaps the Ishbalan rebels who have been giving so much trouble? Maybe you'd go up against them with a little bit of cane with a nice wooden handle?"

"N-no, sir."

"_Well then! _There's no place for them in this lesson, either!" She tossed her head so that her long hair rippled. "I realize that they handle you brats with kid gloves. Personally, I think that's horseshit. You're soldiers, and I expect you to behave like soldiers. That means I also have to treat you like soldiers. So pick out a sword, and let's get to work, here! The day's wasting!"

By the end of the afternoon's lesson – much verbal abuse and many bruises later – Roy returned to his dormitory room with two ideas firmly fixed in his mind. One was that by the end of the four weeks of sword training, his technique would be beyond reproach. The other was more ambitious. He had spotted the chink in Captain Armstrong's armour. He now intended to do his utmost to crack the breastplate open and watch it fall away.


	19. Unto the Breach

**Chapter 19: Unto the Breach**

"_Never_ tuck your thumbs! How many times do I need to repeat something before you idiots figure out that I'm serious?" Captain Armstrong glowered mercilessly at the hapless cadet. "_Never. Tuck. Your. Thumbs. _Understood?"

"Sir, yes sir," the young man responded. Armstrong did not even acknowledge him before swooping down on her next victim.

"Get those feet closer together!" she barked. "Shoulder-width apart for optimal balance, one slightly forward so that you're ready to react."

She went around the room from pair to pair, criticizing them in her harsh, military way. Roy watched with amusement as his classmates obeyed with haste. They were all afraid of her, and she obviously expected them to be. That was where Roy had an advantage. She was strong, and self-assured, and everything he wanted to be when _he_ was an officer, but she was entirely too reliant upon the assumption that her display of backbone would disarm and cow the cadets.

"Mustang! Straighten that spine!"

"It's as straight as it gets, sir," he said, with the barest hit of disrespect in his voice.

Her crystal-blue eyes narrowed to slits beneath their heavy lids. "Are you being fresh with me, Cadet?" she inquired, her voice low and dangerous.

She expected him to be afraid. He _was_ afraid: everything about her, from her perfectly pressed uniform to her thick plait of pale hair – last week Roy had cheekily tugged her free-flowing tresses while she was upbraiding his sparing partner, an action that had earned him four hundred sit-ups and resulted in the style change – to her attitude of bold entitlement. But Roy had an advantage. He knew a woman stronger and more courageous than Armstrong. Nothing that this officer had achieved in her already very successful career – the details of which Maes had furnished – could compare to Riza Hawkeye's feats. That thought was a touchstone, and it helped Roy to keep the present moment in perspective. Armstrong might _want_ to squash him like a bug, but he wasn't going to let her do it.

"No, sir," he said. "Only honest."

She curled her lip. When next she spoke, her voice was so soft that Roy doubted his partner could hear her. "Don't start anything you can't finish, Cadet," she hissed.

Roy smirked saucily. "I always follow through, ma'am," he said aloud.

There were a couple of startled hisses, and somebody snickered. The sound bolstered Roy's courage. He was developing a taste for showmanship, and an appreciative audience was always an asset.

"_Sir_," Armstrong corrected caustically.

"You don't look like a man, sir," Roy said, sweeping his eyes over her figure, which was almost but not quite concealed by the androgynous lines of her duty uniform.

Her lips spasmed and her eyes flashed with fury, but she kept her voice level. "You and I are going to put in a little time after class, Cadet," she threatened.

Oh, she was making it too easy. "My pleasure, sir."

This time, there were more than a few titters. Armstrong quelled them with a searing sweep of the room. "Laps, Mustang," she said. "We'll see if you can run half as well as you can lip off."

Roy didn't want to overplay his hand. "Yes, sir," he said softly.

_discidium_

Maes looked up from packing his kit bag when a low moan came from the other bed.

"I hope you learned your lesson," he said wryly.

The rumpled, sweat-drenched heap of uniform stirred marginally, and another groan erupted from the mattress.

"You can't spit on an officer's boots," Maes told him. "_Especially_ not an officer like Armstrong."

There was no reply. Maes crossed the room and took his spare shirts from the wardrobe.

"You're an idiot, Roy," he said happily, dropping them on the bed and beginning to fold them.

This, finally, elicited a response.

"Thanks, Hughes," the younger cadet mumbled thickly. "Thanks so much. I can't tell you how that makes me feel."

"Well, you've got to hear it," Maes told him. "And who's going to say it once I'm gone?" He moved into the water closet and proceeded to gather together his shaving essentials and such toiletries as he was permitted to bring with him. He raised his voice so as to be heard around the corner. "If you're going to go around antagonizing people, at least find people who aren't Amazons."

"There's nothing special about Captain Armstrong," Roy grunted. "She's just another brass act. And she's not as tough as she thinks she is, either."

"You know, it's that kind of keen insight into people's characters that gets smart-ass little bastards into a lot of trouble," Maes sang. "I have a feeling you're going to be seeing a lot of the track this term."

A long, torturous moan showed what Roy thought of that idea.

"Of course, there's a simple solution." Maes came into the room, tossed his leather kit on the bed, and sat down on his roommate's bed. "Move over," he said, nudging Roy's hip to make more space. He leaned forward, trying to catch the coal-coloured eyes with his own. "Stop trying to turn every class into a pissing contest."

"I oughta win," Roy said. "After all, _she _hasn't got the necessary equipment."

Maes slapped the back of Roy's head. "It's that kind of comment that gets you stomping grooves into the parade grounds 'til all hours of the night!" he exclaimed. "Take it from me, Mustang. Leave Captain Armstrong alone."

"Gah. When are you leaving, again?" Roy groused. "I want a little peace and quiet."

"You heartless wretch!" Maes moaned melodramatically. "I'm being sent into battle – to fight, perchance to die for my country – and all you can think about is when you can expect to be free of my nagging? You're going to feel awfully guilty when I'm dead in a ditch somewhere, and you're sitting here without your bespectacled conscience to keep you from snarking yourself to death."

Roy whirled from his belly to his back with a speed that belied his aching muscles. He pushed himself up on one elbow, using the opposite hand to seize Maes by the forearm. His dark eyes were suddenly wide. "Don't talk like that!" he snapped frantically. "You're not going to die. It's a training rotation. They won't put you in any real danger. They won't. They _can't_."

Maes chuckled a little uneasily. "Relax, buddy," he said, prying Roy's fingers loose from his arm. "There hasn't been any real danger on the western front for six months. In the last eight weeks, there have been _two_ casualties, and one of those was a case of dysentery gone bad. I've seen combat before. I'll be fine."

Roy scowled in annoyance, effectively folding his terror back into its box and replacing it with the necessary facade of bravado. "Yeah, well, make sure you eat with one hand and wipe with the other," he said. "Since dysentery's killing as many soldiers as the Credoans are."

Maes nodded sagely. "I hear that some tough negotiations went into that treaty," he said. "Now, while I'm gone I want you to forward my letters as soon as they come, you hear me?"

Roy nodded, kindly overlooking the thread of anxiety. He knew that Maes was worried about Benjamin, but he wasn't going to address it unless the older cadet brought it up first. "And you make sure you write and give me all the hot tips on passing the rotation."

"Easy," Maes said. "Don't get killed." Damn. He'd done it again. Why, among all the volumes of knowledge that they imparted upon cadets, was there no course in coping with the emotional repercussions of being a soldier? "And eat with one hand, wipe with the other," he added, to lighten the mood. Roy huffed appreciatively.

"And _don't antagonize Armstrong!_" said Maes.

"That'll be hard to do from the western front," Roy lipped.

Maes rolled his eyes. "I was talking about you."

"I know," Roy said. "I was just pretending not to understand... because we both know I'm not going to listen."

Sadly, Maes thought with wry amusement, that was the truth.

_discidium_

Through the weeks of swordplay, the first-years spent a good deal of time practicing stance and technique alone. They sparred with each other about every second class. Captain Armstrong taught with criticism, insisting that her pupils learn from their mistakes, instead of arming them with the information that might have allowed them to circumvent error in the first place. There was logic to her method: if they merely put theory into practice, time would make them sloppy and errors would occur. If they screwed up now, they would be careful not to do it again.

Though she demonstrated most of the techniques solo, they had not seen her spar with another person. It was this point that Roy – who was by now quite the endurance runner, thanks to his multitudinous punitive laps – made on the second-last day of class.

He knew even before he opened his mouth that the comment was suicidal. He didn't care. Maes had been gone for three weeks, sent out with the rest of the first-classmen for his final semester, which was a practical placement in a combat zone. Maes was lucky to have drawn the western border, where there had been little action. A third of his class had been distributed along the border with Aerugo, where the fighting was hot and the political climate was uneasy. Some had even been sent out east, to spend time with the battalions struggling to quell the terrorist uprisings. An unlucky few had been sent north into the Briggs Mountains.

So Maes was fortunate, but Roy still missed him. He had yet to be assigned a new roommate, and the solitude that he had missed so sorely when he had first come to the Academy was now annoying. He didn't have as much time to see Riza as he would have liked, and the Friday night forays into the social life of Central were not nearly as fun without Hughes. Simply put, Roy was bored. The thrill of picking at Armstrong – like poking a tiger with a stick – was the most excitement he had in his life at the moment.

At his comment, her lips tensed and her pupils vanished into pinpricks. The corner of one eye twitched almost imperceptibly.

"So you want to see me spar, Cadet," she cooed, striding across the room from the pair she had been lecturing.

"No, sir. I only wondered why we haven't yet," he said innocently.

She didn't buy that, of course. There was a flash of steel as she whipped her long blade from its sheath. "As the masters of the art say, Mustang, have at thee!"

Roy felt his eyes widen. "Me?" he said. "Me, sir."

"Who else?" Armstrong swept the room with her gaze, and suddenly there was a wide circle around the two of them as the other cadets backed away, torn between terror of their instructor and startled admiration of their compatriot. "Unless you're afraid."

"I'm not afraid, sir," Roy lied boldly. "Though I've never fought a woman before..."

The blow arced through the air so quickly that he scarcely had time to raise his blade. The force of the impact shuddered up into his shoulders and made his teeth rattle. He drew back, dancing nimbly away from her – but Armstrong was swift, and the katana was her art form. She struck again, and again. On the fourth parry, Roy realized with a pang of terror that he was hopelessly outmatched.

There was a collective gasp as Armstrong swept low with her sword. Roy leapt into the air just in time, in a motion that he had learned from Maes' father, who had taught him the basics of hand-to-hand combat. Such a leap was meant to be used against an opponent with a staff – but Absalom Hughes had never said anything about a berserker woman with a sword, so Roy was improvising.

"Observe," Armstrong was saying in her teacher's voice as her sword whistled through the air. "The control extends from the elbows into the wrists. If you direct the force from your shoulders you can muster enough energy to take off a man's head in one swipe."

Roy was damned glad that he had heard that, because he ducked instinctively just as her blade grazed the air above his scalp. The two swords met again, and this time both combatants leaned into it. Captain Armstrong glared viciously at him, and Roy tried to smirk. Then she twisted her wrist, and his sword flew across the room, torn from his fingers.

Startled, Roy sprung backwards. Armstrong whirled, her coattails and her braid following the centripetal motion. Her blade came down, and the flat of the katana smacked Roy just behind the kneecaps. He fell backwards, landing hard on his tailbone. His head slammed against the floor, and suddenly Armstrong was on top of him, one knee on his chest and her face as close to his as the awkward position would allow. Her blade was on his neck.

"My match, Cadet," she said coldly. The katana was withdrawn, and she straightened her back, easing her weight off of his ribs.

Roy was trying to catch his breath, but he could hear the awed silence of his comrades. Damn it. Not only did he look like a fool, but she was a goddess of war. He'd lost face and bolstered her image. It was a tactical error that was also a blow to his pride. Then in a moment of incomprehensible genius and monumental stupidity, he sat up, leaned forward, and planted a quick, smacking kiss squarely on her generous lips.

At oh-two-hundred hours the following morning, he staggered back to his dormitory room with on legs that felt like jelly. It was worth it: the hoots of laughter from his comrades were still ringing in his ears. Mustang hadn't lost face after all.

_discidium_

Captain Olivier Milla Armstrong had accepted her reassignment orders reluctantly. Though the western front was quiet, it beat the hell out of trying to teach a crowd of snot-nosed brats how to wield deadly weapons. The last few weeks had only proved her point. The Academy was wasted on little shits like Mustang. His personnel file was lacking in many of the usual details, but she didn't need ink to fill in the blanks. He was obviously the son of some rich merchant or politician (not an officer's boy, obviously, or she would surely have run into him at some military function over the last two decades). He was spoiled, cocky, and he had an inflated sense of self. All of her efforts to bring him down a notch had backfired. If anything, he seemed more arrogant now than he had been at the beginning.

Olivier slammed her fist down on the desk, flattening the heap of evaluations that she had to complete and submit by tomorrow morning. She was not cut out to teach. She belonged in the battlefield, safeguarding Amestris from its enemies.

There was a knock at the door. "Come in!" Olivier snapped, before remembering to modulate her voice. She couldn't lose her temper. Too many of the pigs she worked with assumed that a woman was incapable of reigning in her emotions. With so few females in the military, the onus to prove the bastards wrong rested all the more heavily on the soldiers of officers like Armstrong.

The door opened, and a small creature came in. She was blonde and slender, clad in cheap clothing that had been given a tasteful makeover by some very skilled seamstress. Enormous carmine eyes dominated a pale, elfin face. It was the eyes that drew Olivier's attention. They were hard as rubies, and illuminated by a fierce determination.

"Who are you?" she asked bluntly. The girl could not be more than fifteen or sixteen years old. What was she doing in the faculty offices of the National Academy?

"Riza Hawkeye, Captain," the girl said. "I had... an appointment."

Olivier remembered now. Nanny Gret – Mrs. Andrew Oakley had come to her with a special request: would Miss Livvy consent to speaking with a young girl of Mrs. Oakley's acquaintance who was interested in enrolling in the Academy. Though Olivier did not admit it to anyone, she loved her one-time nurse. She trusted Greta Oakley as she trusted no one else, and if she thought the girl had merits, Oliver was willing to take the time to do her nanny a favour. The truth was, though, that with the modules coming to an end and Mustang being an adolescent idiot and her hot temper smouldering at temperatures that would melt diamonds, the assignation had slipped Olivier's mind.

"Quite," she said coolly, lessons in courtesy and formality asserting themselves. "Please, have a seat."

The girl took the chair on the other side of the desk. It was meant for students coming to ask help of their instructor, but as Olivier deliberately cultivated an aura that was not conducive to approachability, it had not been used even once since her arrival.

"Mrs. Oakley tells me that you want to enrol in the Academy," Olivier said. "I assume you have questions about what it's like to be a woman in the military?"

"No, ma'am," Hawkeye said quietly. Her eyes were now fixed in her lap, and without their resolve boring into her Olivier found it easy to regard her visitor as an overgrown child. "I think I already know what it would be like."

"Oh, you do, do you?" Olivier asked.

"Yes. I won't fit in. I'll have to work hard – twice as hard as any of the boys. I won't be accepted, and I won't have an easy time, but I know how to work hard, and I know I can do it." The girl inhaled slowly.

"I don't know if you can do it," Olivier said; "but the rest of what you say is true. This isn't the life for a girl who's just looking for a good paycheque. If you want that, try prostitution."

"I want to make a difference," said Hawkeye firmly. She still did not raise her eyes from her lap. "I want my life to be useful. I want to protect... the people of Amestris."

"Laudable goals," Olivier told her. "It sounds like you've given this a great deal of thought."

"I have, Captain."

"Then why are you here?" demanded the soldier.

The girl looked up at last, her extraordinary eyes boring into Olivier's as if the child could see right into her heart. "I need the endorsement of an officer in order to be eligible," she said. "I wanted to ask for yours."

"You've given thought to your goals, but you haven't done your research," Olivier said, affecting a scornful tone to cover the way that those eyes were disconcerting her. "You need a lieutenant colonel or better to apply to the National Academy. Major or better for Western or Southern."

"I know. But the Eastern Academy takes endorsements from captains."

"There's a reason for that. East City is a desert backwater, and Eastern is a substandard school. It doesn't have the staff or the funding that the other four do. The university isn't as good, there are fewer courses available, and Eastern graduates almost never advance in the ranks. It isn't the place for an ambitious cadet," Olivier said.

"I'm not ambitious," said Hawkeye. "I don't want to be a general, I want to be a soldier. I want to help... I want to..." Words seemed to fail her. She closed her eyes and drew in two bracing breaths. "I don't need to go to the best school to achieve what I want to. Eastern is good enough for me."

"Because it's the easy path you want to take it?" Olivier sneered. "That's pathetic. You want to do something with your life, fine. But if you're willing to settle for mediocrity, you're not good enough for me. Get out."

"But Captain, I—"

"Out!"

The girl seemed to arrive at a sudden decision. Something snapped into place, and she fixed her eyes on Olivier.

"My mother is ill," she said, a little too quickly. "She's at the State asylum in East City. I want to attend Eastern so that I can be close to her. If you won't support my application, I can find somebody else, but I thought you might want the chance to give another person the same opportunities you had. You enrolled when you were only fourteen, too, didn't you?"

This gave Olivier pause. "You're fourteen?"

"Yes."

A fourteen-year-old who wanted to protect her country, who was settling for a substandard college so that she could be close to her mad mother. It was a story that might have made misty the coldest of eyes and melted the most frigid of hearts. All that was irrelevant to Olivier. What she saw instead was the steel backbone of obstinacy shining through those extraordinary crimson eyes. She cocked her head to one side.

"I'll consider it," she said.

The girl shook her head once. "The application is due in two weeks' time. I have the letter written: you only need to sign it." She held out a piece of paper.

Olivier took it and perused the neatly printed lines. "Hmm. My thoughts are beautifully phrased," she said wryly.

"I have a way with words," Hawkeye told her.

"So you do," Olivier said. The girl had gumption – and a great deal of gall, coming in here with a pre-written letter. Her quiet boldness appealed to Olivier's nature. The officer smiled and picked up her pen. "Eastern Academy," she mused as she scrawled her name. "I think you're aiming too low... but maybe you'll prove me wrong and excel in spite of it."

"Maybe. Thank you, Captain." The girl took the letter back, folding it with care. She stood up and moved to the door.

"Miss Hawkeye," Olivier said, stopping the girl in her tracks. "Would you like some coffee or something?"

"No, thank you, Captain," said the child. "I have what I came for. Good day."

Then she was gone. Olivier sat back in her chair with a soft sigh. Driven, efficient and to the point. The girl _would _make a good soldier, she decided.

It was not until many years later that Olivier Milla Armstrong learned of the lie that Riza Hawkeye had told, but she never held it against her. They were both cut of the same cloth: determined and courageous women, each ambitious in her own way, fighting the odds in an organization built to accommodate men alone. Though never friends, they were compatriots in the same difficult battle, and they respected one another.


	20. She Was Gone

**Chapter 20: She Was Gone **

On Riza Hawkeye's last day as a civilian, she awoke to the persistent patter of the rain on the curled shingles of the tenement building. She rolled onto her back, instinctively compensating for the narrowness of the dilapidated mattress. She squinted up at the familiar mildew stains on the sloping ceiling, reluctant to rise. She was not tired, for she had taken care to settle in to sleep early the night before. Rather, she knew that once she moved from the bed, she would have to accept the reality. This phase of her life was over, a new one wsa about to begin, and it would have been dishonest to pretend that she wasn't apprehensive. Proud, and even perhaps excited, but apprehensive nonetheless.

At last she rose. For the last time, she shuffled down the narrow corridor to the shared bathroom. She washed and dressed. Yesterday she had packed all of her meagre possessions into her father's battered old carpet bag. Now, she folded her nightgown and slipped it in with the rest. She put on her shoes, made the bed neatly, and made a final sweep of the room to ensure that she had not forgotten anything.

Mrs. Leung was in her doorway when Riza came down the stairs. She cocked her head. "You are leaving?" she said, though she knew the answer already. Riza had given notice weeks ago.

"Yes," the girl said softly. "Thank you for everything."

"You go to East City. Your young man go to war?"

"No!" Riza almost yelped. "No. I'm going by myself. Mr. Mustang is still in school here."

"By yourself?" The landlady seemed momentarily puzzled. Then she held up her index finger. "You wait," she said. "Wait here."

She vanished into her parlour. Riza heard the sound of hasty rummaging, and a muttered Xingese oath. Then Mrs. Leung emerged again.

"Here," she said, taking Riza's free hand and pressing something cool and metallic into it. "Gift for you."

Riza looked down. It was a medallion on a faded red ribbon. The workmanship was exquisite, and the metal was painted with chipped enamel that must have been beautiful once. It depicted a dragon with a feathery beard coiled around a globe. Though no bigger than a bottle cap, it had a heft to it that told Riza it was made of gold.

"I can't accept this," she said, trying to induce the old woman to take it back. "It's too much."

Mrs. Leung shook her head. "It keep you safe," she said. "When I come here on steel road with husband, mother give it. for journey, for new beginnings, to keep safe. Now steal road gone beneath sand. Husband dead. No babies. I give to someone. To you. Keep you safe."

Riza felt an inexplicable lump in her throat. "Thank you," she whispered, afraid to say more. She stepped forward and gave Mrs. Leung a quick, fierce hug. "Thank you for everything."

Then she hurried from the building as quickly as she could.

_discidium_

When Riza had announced that she had applied to the Eastern Academy, Roy had gawked like an idiot. He dimly recalled saying something inane and unspeakably stupid. She had folded her hands primly in her lap, regarded him levelly along the length of the park bench, and said firmly, "That's what I want."

But _why _did she want it, Roy had protested! Eastern was a lousy school! She was brilliant: she'd excel at the National Academy. Opportunities were better for its graduates and anyway then they could be together, the two of them only a year apart in their studies. Besides, if she went to Eastern she would have to leave Central in July, and she'd miss Maes' convocation and induction and—

But Riza had only fixed him with a cool, determined eye and repeated; "This is what I want."

Watching her now as she said her goodbyes to her employer, Roy reflected that she looked like a soldier marching into battle. The realization that this time tomorrow she _would_ be a soldier, with battle in her distant future if not in her immediate one, visited him with a wave of vague nausea.

An enormous grin reflected itself off of the wet window of the flower shop, obscuring Roy's view of the three females within. He turned in annoyance towards the stocky blonde with the simian jaw.

"You're a soldier," Orson Oakley said cheerfully.

"That's right," Roy replied, a certain coolness of tone masking his exasperation. He knew that the man was retarded and couldn't help being just a little dense, but he had no patience to spare today.

"Miss Livvy's a soldier."

"Hum," Roy said noncommittally, squinting against the rain to try to catch Riza's expression. She was talking to the daughter now – a tall, pretty young lady with trim hips and lovely round breasts. Roy would have stolen a nice, long look at her on any other day.

"Riza's gonna be a soldier, too." Now Orson sounded almost dejected. Roy turned in mild surprise.

"Yes, she will," he said. "She'll be a very good soldier."

"I don't want her to go away," Orson said. "I like Riza."

"Yeah, well, that makes two of us," the cadet said sourly. Why had he encouraged her? Why had he agreed to this? It was ridiculous. She didn't have to run off and join the military. There were lots of things that she could do. She could... or maybe... not to mention...

There was nothing else she could do. Not if she wanted a university education. Not if she wanted to be something better than a shop girl or a factory hand. Roy couldn't offer her anything better. He didn't have any right to tell her what to do with her life.

The shop door opened, and Riza came out, closely followed by Mrs. and Miss Oakley, who stayed beneath the awning out of the rain.

"You be sure to write," the older woman was saying, smoothing the collar of Riza's coat. "And bundle up warm. I hear eastern winters can be awfully harsh."

Riza laughed a little. "You heard that from _me_," she said. "I grew up in the east, remember? And anyway, East City's farther south than Hamner. I'll be fine."

"And when you're in town, I expect you to stop by for a visit," Mrs. Oakley went on. "I'll be very hurt if you don't."

"I will," Riza promised. She let the woman embrace her briefly. "Thank you so much. You're a wonderful boss."

"I couldn't have asked for a better accountant. Gracia has big shoes to fill." Mrs. Oakley looked fondly at her daughter. "Take care of yourself, Riza dear."

There was a brief scrimmage as Riza climbed into the truck, with Orson on her left and Roy on her right. The young soldier held her tatty case in his lap, trying not to press against her as the vehicle lurched into motion.

"You're so pretty," Orson said, glancing at Riza between scans of the rear-view mirror. He took one hand off of the wheel and patted her knee.

"Hey, hands to yourself!" Roy said protectively.

Riza smiled. "It's all right, Mr. Mustang," she said quietly. "I don't mind."

Orson, who had looked momentarily hurt and astonished, grinned happily. He squeezed Riza's leg affectionately and then returned his hand to the business of steering.

Roy felt a stab of possessive envy. How did that young man dare to touch Riza like that? And why did she let him? It wasn't fair.

He wormed his arm out of its place between Riza's shoulder and his chest, and stretched it out behind her head. His fingers dangled down, casually grazing her far collarbone.

Riza cleared her throat pointedly. "Please don't do that, Mr. Mustang," she said primly.

Abashed in spite of himself, Roy withdrew his arm, tucking his hand away from her. She didn't want him touching her. He couldn't explain just why that made him angry... at Orson.

At last they reached the train station. Rather than pull up to the loading area by the doors, Orson parked the truck. He got out, offering Riza his hand. Roy exited via the other door, slamming it with a little more force than was quite necessary. He started to walk towards the door, but stopped after three steps. The other young man was following them.

Surely he couldn't mean to come inside with them? Roy thought with horror. He didn't want to spend his last moments with Riza under the chaperonage of this overgrown child.

Riza turned towards her long-armed friend. "Orson, you have to get back to the shop," she said. "You've still got the morning deliveries to do. It was very kind of you to drive me."

"But... but..." Tears brimmed in the boy's eyes.

"Come on. You have work to do," Riza told him gently. "Oh, Orson, don't cry. I'll write to you, I promise."

"You will?" he sniffled.

"Of course I will." Riza wrapped her arms around him, wrapping him in an embrace that he reciprocated emphatically. "This is goodbye for now. You get back to the shop."

"'Kay," Orson grunted gruffly.

Riza stood watching as he pulled away, and she waved, smiling sunnily as the truck disappeared out of sight.

"Thank God," Roy said. "I thought he was going to come in."

Riza turned on him, her face furrowing into a reproving frown. "You mustn't say that," she admonished softly. "Orson's a sweetheart."

Roy wanted to retort that that was exactly what he was afraid of, but somehow the smart remark that his new, confident self would have made did not seem appropriate. Instead he hung his head meekly. "Sorry," he said. Then he changed the subject. "You have your ticket?"

Riza nodded, producing it from within her coat. "East City," she said. "One way."

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Roy asked, stopping at the turnstile. "It's not too late to change your mind..."

"Of course I want to do it," Riza said firmly. "I've always wanted to join the military. Don't you remember?"

And he did. In the earliest days, she had played at being a Special Soldier, charging across the plains of Amestris bearing important missives for the Fuhrer himself. As a student at the one-room school, she had taken an ardent interest in the military history of the nation, reading tales of its heroes and making a study of the great campaigns. She was destined to be a soldier, as he was destined to be a State Alchemist. It was inevitable, Roy realized abruptly, and there was no point in fighting it. It was destiny.

"Yeah, well, if you need any pointers," he said. "You know, for drilling or tactics or anything... just drop me a line. I've done it all."

"Thank you," Riza said earnestly. She reached out a small, white hand for her bag. "I... I suppose this is goodbye."

"Hell, no!" Roy exclaimed with false bravado. "I'll come out and visit during the Victory Day holidays."

"That would be nice," she whispered. She was no longer able to make eye contact with him, and suddenly Roy was glad. He was afraid that if he looked into her eyes, he would start crying.

He held out his hand.

"Good luck, Cadet Hawkeye," he said.

She gripped his fingers and shook his hand firmly.

"Thank you, Mr. Mustang," she breathed. She glanced up at him for the briefest of moments, and then cast her eyes down and vanished through the gate towards the platform.

All at once Roy wanted to throw his arms around her, to hug her to his breast and kiss her and never let her go. "Riza, wait—" he cried, but it was too late.

She was gone.

_discidium_

The last time Riza had ridden on a train, she had been coming to Central, newly orphaned and practically penniless. At the time she had been terrified of what lay in store for her in the big, strange city. In retrospect, that terror seemed like nothing at all.

Riza sat on the hard seat, petrified with fear. Here she was, in a wooden box rattling away from the one person she trusted. For she _did_ trust Mr. Mustang. She trusted him and she cared about him and she wanted to protect him.

_That_ was the reason she had to join the military. If he was going to become a State Alchemist, and pursue his goal of making Amestris a better place, he would need loyal soldiers to serve with him and protect him. Riza could not guarantee his safety on the battlefield unless she too was there. She could not follow him into the circles of military bureaucracy without the trappings of a soldier. If she wanted to take care of him, she had to follow him.

It seemed strange, then, to be running away from him... and yet... she knew that she had to do this, too. Not for Mr. Mustang, but for herself. She needed time to grow up and to discover who she really was. All her life, she had been overshadowed by powerful male personalities: first her father, now Mr. Mustang. They overwhelmed her quiet being, their needs and goals outshining her own. If she wanted to find out who Riza Hawkeye was, she needed to distance herself from Mr. Mustang's consuming presence, at least for a little while.

Yet still, the distance – growing with each passing second – tore at her heart. Riza turned her face towards the rain-streaked window, and slowly let her bastion of strength dissolve. She had eighteen hours before she would alight in East City to begin her training as a cadet in the military. There would be time later for stoicism and courage.

Now, silently, she wept.


	21. Insubordination

**Chapter 21: Insubordination**

In Central, Roy Mustang was suffering through the boredom of a four-week field studies rotation with one of the battalions that furnished Military Headquarters with commissionaires and night watchmen. In East City, Riza Hawkeye was on a steep learning curve. She was now a fourth-class cadet at the newest and least prestigious of the five military academies.

On the first day, the one hundred and thirteen recruits assembled on the dusty parade grounds. They were hardly an impressive sight: gangling kids in stiff new uniforms that had not been donned with anything like practiced care. Many had overgrown hair and unshaved chins. All but a few who knew something of military life stood at a clumsy approximation of attention.

To Riza's amazement she was not the only girl present. Knowing that Mr. Mustang's class had only three female cadets she had expected to be more or less alone. Instead, she picked out more than a dozen young women in just a cursory glance at the line. All were older than she, of course, for despite the rule permitting enrolment at fourteen most cadets were old enough to sign up on their own recognizance. Riza didn't care. Age was a relative trait and easy to overcome. Gender, on the other hand, was more obvious. She did not want to be singled out, and among a group of women she had a better chance of blending in.

After the address by Colonel Nolan, Eastern Academy's commanding officer, the cadets were given their barracks assignments. Fifty men were put in Barracks A, and forty-five in Barracks B. The eighteen girls were assigned to Barracks C.

It was a low stone building with a roof of corrugated tin. Inside, two rows of cots occupied the bulk of the floor space. An NCO with a receding hairline assigned each cadet to her bed and ordered the girls to stand at the foot of their cots.

"I'm Master Sergeant Rosenflower," he said briskly. "I'm your barracks commander. I want you to know that I take my job very seriously and I run a tight organization. I don't tolerate any nonsense. Keep your sheets squared, your boots polished and your hair off your shoulders, and you won't have any trouble from me."

He paced up and down the length of the room as he spoke, eying the recruits in a cool, appraising manner.

"I know that some of you are going to be uncomfortable sharing quarters with an old man – which, let's face it, I am. Get over it and count your blessings. At any of the other academies you'd be in the big barns with the boys. And while time and my lady wife – God rest her soul – have stolen most of my sex drive, I promise they've still got theirs!

"If that last comment offended you, well, you'll have to get over that, too. Men are pigs, and soldiers doubly so. There's not a thing you can do to change that, but you _can_ change the way that they look at a woman in uniform. That won't happen if you get catty with them, or complain about their juvenile comments, or throw a fit when one of them tweaks your ass. The only way you'll ever gain their respect is by behaving like a solider and an officer. Act like one and eventually you'll be treated like one. Act like a pampered princess and you'll be treated like the camp whore."

There were a couple of scandalized hisses. Roseflower cleared his throat. "There are eighteen of you," he said. "That makes this the largest body of female cadets in Amestrian history. Congratulations. I recruited quite a few of you, but for those who haven't heard me speak, I'm a lead proponent of women in the military. When I was a green corporal there was a joke that if we'd had our mothers-in-law on the western front we would've pushed Creda into the sea in a week. I don't think it was a joke. Women make extraordinary soldiers. You have a tenacity and ingenuity that most men can only dream of. Your courage is unmatched. Most importantly, you are a resource our enemies have yet to tap – and one that Amestris is only beginning to. I'm proud to say that Eastern is leading the way in that respect."

There were a few surprised cross-glances. Riza thought she understood them. Eastern didn't have the reputation of an innovator. Were there really so many girls here because females in uniform was a progressive concept that the more conservative attitude of the better schools discouraged? Or were they here because the lower standards at Eastern made it easier for girls to make the cut?

"Now. You're going to have to put up with a lot of inconveniences," Rosenflower said. "We don't have segregated shower facilities, so if you don't want the guys to get an eyeful you'll have to use them at the designated times _only_. Those are posted here and in the shower bunker. You also might have noticed that the barracks has no toilet. I'm sorry: it was all we could do to get money for windows. If you need to visit Mother Nature at night, you won't be penalized for violating curfew, but take my advice and wear your coat over your pajamas. Understood?"

Riza didn't understand, but a few of her classmates appeared to. One or two looked annoyed. Others seemed horrified.

_discidium_

Sergeant Rosenflower then took the girls through a rote of regulations regarding the care of their bed space and personal property. He went through several demonstrations of necessary skills including boot-blacking, button-polishing and field-pressing of uniforms. After that it was off to the mess hall, where Riza discovered that Mr. Mustang's horror stories about the regimentation of eating habits were all too true.

The afternoon was spent on the parade grounds, where the class muddled through their first lesson in stance and drilling. That night, after a bland supper full of barked reprimands, Riza made her weary way back to the barracks. She was hot and tired, and she wanted to take a shower.

Many of her classmates agreed, and with womens' time scheduled between twenty-thirty and twenty-one-hundred hours, they quickly gathered fresh uniforms and toiletries, and moved _en masse _towards the bathing bunker. It was a concrete structure with tiny windows set high under the eaves. Inside, there was an area of benches where the girls might deposit their clothes. A laundry bin stood beneath four shelves stacked with coarse military towels. There were a couple of cracked and neglected mirrors along one wall. Then the floor took an eight-inch drop into the shower area. Riza stared at it in horror, a cold knot coiling itself into the pit of her stomach.

There were a dozen corroded showerheads, each with two taps midway up the bare pipes. Half as many drains were sunk into the bare cement. There were no partitions, no curtains... no semblance of privacy.

Riza was not the only one who hesitated: a tall girl with brown hair piled high on her head shrank back against the door with dismay in her eyes. Most of the others, though, began to undress at once – some with brisk efficiency, others reluctantly. A red-haired young lady shook loose a mess of curls and laughed aloud as she writhed out of her blouse. "C'mon Steph!" she called out. "You've got to get 'em off eventually."

The brunette shook her head. "I'll wait," she mumbled, flushing a brilliant shade of red as one of the cadets near her flung off the last of her garments and brushed past en route to the showers.

"For what?" her friend demanded. "For second year, when we'll be two to a dorm room and you can bathe in private? Or maybe for nine o'clock, when the guys can get in here. Come on; we've all seen what you've got."

The tension in the room suddenly broke as the more nervous girls started to laugh. "That's right, we have, haven't we?" asked a broad-shouldered blonde. "I mean, we're all girls. What're we afraid of?"

"Exactly!" said the redhead. She marched across the floor, grabbed Steph by the wrist, and drew her towards the nearest bench. "Hurry up, now. You smell like an ox."

Steph rolled her eyes. "Thanks, Lucy. Thanks so much," she said with self-conscious sarcasm. Still, she began to disrobe.

Lucy surveyed the room, alert for any other hesitators. Her eyes fell, naturally, on Riza.

"You, too," she coaxed. "C'mon. Nobody has any interest in what you're hiding."

Maybe not now, Riza thought, but the minute she undressed... maybe the others had all seen what Steph had, but Riza could guarantee they'd never laid eyes upon anything remotely like _her_ naked body. She shook her head. "I can't," she said, backing towards the door and shifting her change of clothes to one side so that she could grip the handle. "I just... I can't..."

She turned and fled into the gathering dusk, leaving a couple of startled shrieks behind her as her exit made a sliver of the bunker visible to the empty grounds without.

When the others returned to the barracks, clean and damp and united by one of the many indignities of military service, Cadet Hawkeye was already in bed, her oversized men's pajamas – standard issue, of course – clinging unpleasantly to her perspiration-slicked skin. They assumed that she was asleep with her face buried in the cotton pillowcase, and no one made any move to include her in their conversations. Riza, wide awake and overwhelmed with the scope of her problem, did not disillusion them.

_discidium_

The fourth-class cadets had ninety minutes of unscheduled time the following afternoon. They dispersed to the corners of the campus, laughing and chatting together in small groups. Riza knew that she had no place in their socialization: she had not been around a crowd of peers since her father had pulled her out of school at the age of ten. She toyed briefly with the idea of going back to the barracks to sleep for a while, but instead she made her way towards the parade grounds. A group of seniors were drilling to the commands of one of their number. Riza took a seat on the wooden stands and rested her chin on her hand, watching the smooth, precise movements that were so vastly different from the muddled marching of her own class.

A booted foot and a blue-clad leg swung over the bench to her left. Riza turned her head in surprise to see Lucy, the redheaded girl, straddling the wooden plank. She grinned amicably.

"Hi," she said. "Hawkeye, isn't it?"

"That's right," Riza said. Making eye contact too rather more courage than she had at the moment, so she looked down at her own boot. There was a thin layer of dust covering the sleek leather. She would have to wipe them down before evening muster.

"We haven't been properly introduced. I'm Lucy Bacall."

"Riza Hawkeye," the younger girl murmured, accepting the proffered handshake. "Pleased to meet you."

"And that's Stephanie Isaac," Bacall said, pointing.

Riza turned around and realized with a start that the brunette had crept up from behind and seated herself on Riza's right. "Oh! Hello," Riza said.

"Charmed, I'm sure," said Stephanie. There was a hint of shyness in her voice, and she cast a quick look at her friend. Bacall exuded confidence, but Isaac seemed more human. Riza preferred the latter girl.

"So... is it true you're only fourteen?" Lucy demanded without further preamble.

"I'm a hundred and eight, unless it matters," Riza said pertly. Her eyes widened a little at her own boldness. It sounded like something Mr. Mustang might say.

The other girls were not offended, however. Both laughed. "I'm seventeen," supplied Stephanie. "Lucy's sixteen."

"Surprised?" Bacall asked. "Most people think I'm the older one. We're from Youswell. What about you?"

"Central. Hamner. I'm... I'm from a village called Hamner. To the north."

"Really? How far north?" asked Isaac.

"Not far. It's... it's in the eastern province," Riza said. She took a breath that seemed to relax her. "It's a very quiet place. Or it was. I've... I've spent the last couple years in Central."

Lucy whistled softly. "Central? Really. City girl."

"I suppose..." Riza said.

"Why'd you apply out here?" asked Steph.

"My application was endorsed by a captain," Riza told her. It was a convenient equivocation.

"Why apply at all?" Bacall queried. "We signed up so we wouldn't have to spend our lives as balmaidens in the black hole of the universe, but if you'd already made it to Central..."

"There's not much for a girl to do in Central, either," Riza said. "_I_ didn't want to grow old working in a factory. And I wanted to protect..." She stopped, thinking of Mr. Mustang, who despite his bravado and his intelligence still sometimes seemed like a careless little boy. She didn't want to tell these two about him. He represented something sacred... a secret aspiration that she needed to enshrine in her heart. "To protect the people," she amended.

"Sounds like a plan," Bacall chuckled. She put a companionable arm around Riza's shoulder, and the smaller girl stiffened. She wasn't used to frequent physical contact, and certainly not from virtual strangers. "What do you say the three of us do it together?"

Riza wasn't sure quite what the other cadet was proposing, but Steph took hold of her elbow and smiled amicably. "Lucy's a great friend to have," she confided. "You'll see: she's got enough confidence for all of us."

Riza thought defiantly that she wanted confidence of her _own_, but she smiled and nodded. "I guess I'm glad to meet you," she said.

"You don't need to be scared of us, or of the other girls either," Lucy said. "I've talked to most of 'em, and I'll tell you this: we're all a bit scared. Who wouldn't be? It's a man's army; we don't belong here."

"But here we are," Steph put in.

"Exactly," said Bacall. "And you heard Master Sergeant Cue Ball. If we act like officers, we'll turn this _into _an army for women. We're going to make history."

Riza's smile was genuine now. This girl almost sounded like Mr. Mustang. She didn't have his wry, saucy humour or his new tactless, almost arrogant candour. Instead she had his optimism, his enthusiasm for his calling and his hope for a better future. Confident or not, Riza had a feeling that Lucy Bacall would be a good friend to have.

_discidium_

By her fourth day on the campus, Riza could not bear it any longer. She had to take a shower. She had always been fastidious, even as a child, and the feeling of unwashed skin was unbearable. Her hair was choked with oil, and the back of her neck was dusty, and even under the layers of her uniform she could detect a faint, horrid smell of stale perspiration. She couldn't delay it any longer. Yet despite the other girls' increasingly flippant attitude towards the communal bathing, she could not bear the thought of undressing before them. Every time she tried to work up the courage, she remembered the black lines marring her back – and the exposure and humiliation that she had suffered at her father's hands as he had applied the tattoo. No one, save Mr. Mustang, had seen her disrobed since those dark days, and that was exactly how she had to keep it.

Her misgivings went beyond personal prudery. She was entrusted with a secret – a deadly secret. She had passed her father's knowledge on, and was freed of that charge, but she still had a duty to keep the information safe. Who knew? Perhaps one of the other girls was a student of alchemy. Perhaps they would tell someone who was. Perhaps...

Riza did not want to admit the third reason. She dreaded having someone ask about the tattoo. Even years after the fact, she could not cope with what had been done to her. The deepness of the betrayal, the realization that her beloved father had seen her only as an object, as a means to an end, was something that she had never quite reconciled herself to. Her mind skirted around the issue like a water strider navigating around a floating leaf, protecting her from the ghastly reality. If someone asked what the markings were... how they had come to be on her back...

So that night at twenty-three-hundred hours when the others were all fast asleep, she got out of bed. She put her greatcoat on over the pyjamas and tiptoed to the bunker door. Master Sergeant Rosenflower stirred in his cot, but did not awaken.

The compound was deserted. Riza moved swiftly along the path to the shower bunker, passing the streetlamps and the puddles of light that they cast on the packed earth. Once inside the deserted building, she stripped down and washed as quickly as she could. The warm water felt heavenly on her grimy body, and she worked the soap right into her scalp.

She had dried herself and was just pulling on her coat again when the door handle turned. Riza clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from crying out as the door slid open. She had been caught!

A pair of green eyes fixed on her, and a now-familiar grin appeared. "Hey, Hawkeye!" Lucy Bacall laughed softly. "Breaking curfew?"

"Master Sergeant Rosenflower said..."

"That we could use the toilets after lights out," Bacall scolded amicably. "Not the showers. You're going to get yourself into trouble."

"I..."

Lucy flicked the lights off and took Riza by the wrist. She drew her outside, closed the door carefully, and hurried towards the latrine building, which unlike the other _was_ segregated, divided into halves for each of the sexes. Beneath the harsh light of the naked light bulbs inside, the older girl studied Riza's face critically.

"Why don't you want to bathe with everybody else?" she asked. "You can't be _that _shy."

"I am," Riza said. "I really, really am."

Bacall laughed. "But honey, that's just silly! I told you, we're in this together. Nobody cares how you look without your kit, I promise."

Riza screwed her eyes tightly closed.

"I _can't_," she said emphatically.

"But kid, if you're in there outside the designated times a guy could walk in on you. Wouldn't that be worse?"

"If they did they'd be breaking curfew," Riza retorted.

"So are you," Bacall pointed out.

"But _I_ won't get caught," said Riza.

Though Lucy didn't really believe her, she shrugged. The two of them walked back to the barracks together. After that, Riza took her shower late at night while her classmates slept. It was the perfect arrangement. None of them saw her, and of course the male cadets never walked in: they were all in bed, too. After a while even the fact that she was violating the curfew ceased to bother her.

It was Riza Hawkeye's first act of insubordination.


	22. Practical Experience

**Chapter 22: Practical Experience **

Roy had every intention of taking the Victory Day holiday to travel to East City to visit Riza at the Academy there. But then three weeks before the break, it was announced that there were spaces available in the annual elite endurance program. Typically offered only to a select few first-class cadets, the program entailed ten days spent incommunicado at an undisclosed location. It furnished these students with an opportunity to practice some of the more clandestine skills that an officer required. It was a chance to put to work theories that every soldier prayed he would never have to use.

Roy was a model cadet, well-liked by the faculty and well-respected by his peers. He had no trouble making the grade, and he wrote a brief letter of apology to Riza. It was true that he missed her, but this was an excellent opportunity – an opportunity that, if all went well, he would never have again. For though neither his classmates nor his instructors knew it, Cadet Mustang had absolutely no intention of attending the Academy next year.

He hadn't told anyone – not even Maes, who was now a junior officer training with West City's police regiments, but in October it had finally happened. He had counted the bank notes carefully hoarded in his foot locker, and the total had come to fifteen thousand three hundred _sens_. At last, after more than four years of scrimping and hoarding, he had enough money to take the State Alchemist's exam.

What had pushed him over the threshold was a gift from Riza. She had sent him sixteen hundred _sens_ – her first two months' _per diem _– and with it a note. It had read:

_Dear Mr. Mustang,_

_Please accept this small token of my Esteem. While  
__ there can be no repayment for the Kindness you have  
__shown me, I hope that this may serve to offset something  
of the Very Great expense that I have been two you  
these last years. I will sent more as I am Able._

_Please do not think of Refusing this. You must think  
first of your Goals, and of the State Alchemist certification that  
will allow you to achieve them._

_I remain yours faithfully,_

_Riza Hawkeye._

Despite her words, Roy wanted to return the money. What in the end induced him to keep it was the realization that though he did not feel Riza was in his debt, she _did_. He knew all too well how corrosive a feeling of helpless obligation could be. He had written back to thank her, and to tell her that no further repayment was needed. Once his application was accepted, he planned to send her another letter explaining why.

_discidium_

Roy missed Maes Hughes. It wasn't just that Maes was his best friend and the only person on the planet, besides Riza Hawkeye, whom the cadet could trust. It wasn't just that Maes was funny, and charismatic, and eternally optimistic. It wasn't just that without him there were no enthusiastic conversations about the beautiful future that awaited the pair of them once they embarked on their careers. It wasn't even the fact that without Maes to attract unwanted girls as a pot of honey attracts flies, Roy had to work much harder on his Friday night excursions into town. Though these were all good reasons for missing Maes Hughes, there was another one. Named Mark Zlotsky.

Cadet Zlotsky was in second year. Since the rest of the second-class were all paired off, Mark had been assigned to Roy as a roommate. He was twenty-one going on nine: a puerile, obnoxious, nosy scion of some rich mercantile dynasty. He was by nature a toady, one of those parasites who latched onto persons perceived to possess power and influence.

He was naturally thrilled to be rooming with Cadet Mustang, whose popularity among the faculty was well known. A lieutenant of the honour guard, a student with impeccable grades both in the military courses and in the alchemy classes that he took at the university (for easy credit, naturally), and now a hand-picked candidate for one of the most jealously guarded programs at the Academy... Roy was exactly the kind of person on whom Zlotsky loved to feed. Mark incessantly questioned him about his coursework. He grilled him about instructors' preferences, and was constantly trying to curry favours in exchange for dubious _quid pro quos _involving his diverse network of second-rate officers, ambitious businessmen, and family acquaintances.

So Roy was really not surprised to be interrogated regarding the endurance program as he tried to revise for his Tactics exam.

"Is it true you'll be training with Special Ops?" Mark asked in his usual nasal voice, flopping onto his bed and peeling off his socks to reveal thick, bony toes.

"I can't discuss that," Roy said, more because he wanted to drive the jerk crazy than because the statement was true. As a matter of fact, he had no idea if he'd be training with Special Ops or not. Probably not. The syllabus that he had been given described the excursion as _"an intensive course in specialized command and defensive techniques of particular value to those who will serve in a front line capacity". _Beyond that and the extremely short list of personal belongings that he was allowed to bring with him, he knew nothing.

"Aw, you can trust me!" wheedled Mark. He took out a pair of scissors and began to clip his toenails, sending shards flying in every direction. "After all, we're friends."

"No, we're roommates," Roy said in annoyance. "And not particularly compatible ones, either."

Among Zlotsky's many flaws was a complete inability to pick up upon the normal social cues. "I was thinking that you really oughtta meet my father," he went on. "He's got a lot of influence with the Parliament, you know, and that can be handy for a young officer. Then I could meet _your _parents, and..."

"Trust me, you don't need to meet my parents," Roy said sourly. "We're not bunking together voluntarily, you know: this isn't going to end in a wedding."

"Well, I know _that_!" Mark chuckled, completely undaunted. "But you never know what our families could do for each other. Your father's an entrepreneur like mine, isn't he?"

"Actually, no," Roy said sarcastically. "My mother's the entrepreneur, and my father's an eccentric who plays with matches. Now shut up and let me study!"

"I'm just saying that there could be such a thing as a _quid pro quo_ in all of this..."

Roy moaned softly under his breath. God, how he missed Maes!

_discidium_

By the time the holiday rolled around, Roy was just relieved at the prospect of ten days without Mark Zlotsky. When he and the forty-nine others assembled by the two canvas-covered troop transport trucks that would take them to the location of the training exercises, he could feel the excitement in the air, but he shared little of it. He was already having second thoughts about his choice to attend. After all, he wanted to be a State Alchemist. He wouldn't be anywhere near the front lines, and he probably didn't need specialized training for that eventuality. He could've been on a train speeding towards East City right now, on his way to see Riza. Instead, he was being loaded into a stuffy transport on his way to who knows where.

The drive was not a long one, but the cadets could not see where they were being taken. A couple of the seniors whispered speculations to each other as the vehicle lurched to a halt. Roy's curiosity was piqued: they were obviously still in Central, or at the very least in the immediate vicinity. Then the driver came around and opened the back of the truck, revealing the inside of a large warehouse rent in twain by a plywood divider.

"Step lively, cadets!" he ordered. "Muster for inspection!"

There was a brief shuffling, accompanied by swift adjustment of uniforms and hasty button-fastening. Someone shouted for attention, and the fifty young men snapped into the rigid, formal stance as a small group of officers came towards them. Roy recognized one of their number at once: the thin, saturnine man second from the left was General Haman, the Twisted Jade Alchemist. Roy had seen him only once before, almost four years ago, when in juvenile ignorance he had gone to Military Headquarters to apply to write the State Alchemist's exam. Now, versed as he was in military etiquette, he had to wonder what such a high-ranking officer was doing greeting a group of cadets.

As he took in the visage of the man to Harman's left, his astonishment heightened. He had never seen him in person before, but there could be no mistaking the chiselled jaw, the neatly trimmed moustache and the black eye patch.

It was Fuhrer President King Bradley.

He stopped, surveyed the line, and then saluted crisply. "At ease, cadets," he said. Though they all obeyed, moving their feet shoulder-width apart and clasping their hands behind their backs, not one of them looked even remotely relaxed. Roy wasn't the only one who was having a hard time believing that the Fuhrer himself – the leader of all of Amestris and the supreme general of the military – was here (wherever here was!) to greet them.

"I'll spare you the motivational speech," the Fuhrer said, his lone eye travelling up and down the line. "Obviously you are the finest that Amestris has to offer, or you wouldn't be here. I'll save your time and mine, because you have a busy ten days ahead of you. I have only this piece of advice to offer you. It wasn't so long ago that I stood where you stand now, and I can say with authority that you will get out of this experience what you put into it. Treat it like a game, and you'll come away the same green kids you are now. Take it seriously – put yourself into the situation and behave like soldiers – and by the end you'll be as ready for combat as it is in our power to make you. That is all. Good luck."

Roy half hoped that the other members of his entourage would speak – General Haman in particular. But the Fuhrer strode away past the partition, and the others followed him. Then a captain with a pointed goatee came forward and told the cadets just what it was that they had all so eagerly signed up for.

It was a reality of military service in war time that officers ran the risk of being captured by the enemy. Although Creda with its republic and its rights "for the people" was renowned, even in Amestris, for its humane treatment of prisoners, the armies of Aerugo employed techniques of interrogation that had broken more than one high-ranking captive with disastrous consequences. Thus it was decided that a number of the most promising cadets should be given a chance to apply some of the rudimentary resistance strategies that all officer candidates heard about in lecture. That was the purpose of this endurance test.

The fifty cadets, the captain explained, had been "taken captive" by the Aerugans. They would be held and interrogated, and it was their duty to refrain from disclosing any of the information with which they had been trusted. Over the course of the ten days, they would have opportunities to practice the techniques that they had read about – passive resistance, compartmentalization, equivocation. Grades would be assigned for creativity, consistency and above all reticence. All care would be taken to ensure that no one came to any permanent harm, but that did not mean that no one would get hurt. If they failed to take it seriously...

He didn't say it, but they all understood. If they didn't take it seriously they would return to the Academy in disgrace. If they deported themselves well, they would emerge with a good grade, the respect of the instructors, and invaluable firsthand experience in resisting hostile inquisitors.

The "interrogators" were a group of men whose average age was four or five years older than the fourth-year cadets. They wore nondescript civilian clothes and attempted to act (and certainly to swear) like barbarians, but if anyone was fooled Roy was not. They were Amestrian officers, and he suspected that they _were_ Special Ops after all. Or at least Special Ops trainees. It occurred to him more than once during the bleary days that followed that this might be as much of an exercise for them as it was for the cadets. He hoped it wasn't. He didn't want to believe that Amestris employed such torture tactics against its enemies.

The primary component of the program was deprivation. The cadets were not allowed to sleep, and were fed only sporadically. This, the captain told them repeatedly, was a simple but effective way to wear down a soldier's psychological fortitude while weakening the body. It was a classic brainwashing technique, and they _must not succumb_.

The cadets met that challenge admirably. Divided into smaller groups and locked in small plywood "cells", they passed the time with jokes and lewd stories. When one was taken out for questioning, he could always expect to return to comrades putting on a cheerful face. Any initial tendency to compete was quickly replaced by stubborn camaraderie. Had this been an Aerugan prisoner-of-war camp and not a warehouse somewhere in Central, Amestris would have been very proud of her boys in blue.

The "interrogation" sessions were more challenging. These were typically individual exercises: one "prisoner" and one "captor", one cadet and one Special Op. Some simply resembled police questioning: a hard wooden chair, bright lights, the occasional blow to the head. Others were more involved. On one occasion, Roy was shackled to a table leg for ten hours before the interrogator came in, tempting him with water and promises of sleep. Once the "Aerugan" bound his arms behind his back from the wrists to the elbows, and then strung him up so that his toes barely grazed the floor. By the time _that_ session was over, it was very hard to remember that it was all just a game, a test... and when he was finally returned to his group, Roy was convinced that this was, in fact, an exercise for the Special Ops.

On the eighth day, the "prison" was dismantled, and the two groups sat down for a collective debriefing. The cadets had a chance to share their experiences and the strategies that had served them well. The plainclothes soldiers (for now that it was over Roy was once again doubting his conviction that they were members of some secret, elite regiment) offered constructive criticism where it was needed, and praise where it was due. The captain and his staff had their input, and the grades were given out. Roy was proud to be included in the ninety-fifth percentile.

On the ninth night, a truck full of liquor came in, and everyone got roaring drunk together. It was one hell of a party, and it reinforced for Roy all the reasons that he loved the military. They had all been through a harrowing (albeit contrived) experience, and it had brought them closer together.

It was a haggard but self-satisfied crowd of cadets who returned to the Academy at the end of the ten days. Proud of himself and of his comrades, Roy was even able to ignore the perpetual chattering of his nepotistic roommate as he soaked in a hot shower, brushed his teeth for the first time in over a week, and folded himself into the comfort of his narrow bed. He slept for thirteen uninterrupted hours.

_discidium_

The time came for the third-year cadets to apply for their administrative practicum. Each was given a booklet with rubrics of the different placements. They were allowed to name their top three preferences, which would be taken into consideration when the duty assignments were given.

Remembering Maes' experience with the education office, Roy was careful to steer clear of any such domestic placement. The medical administration office, the public works division, the parliamentary details – all these he ruled out. He wasn't particularly interested in policing, either. But there was one such practicum that did catch his eye.

One of the new State Alchemists wanted to take a student. He was directing a committee out of the Railroad Bureau that was, according to the brief, responsible for a new line that had to cut through the most south-western spur of the Briggs Mountains. 

The Alchemist had a team of four engineers, and sought a "dedicated, hard-working cadet with an active interest in alchemy". Letters of intent were required for pupils hoping to be chosen for that assignment.

Roy wrote his with care. Perhaps a State Alchemist would have some pointers on preparing for the exam. Perhaps the man would be willing to give him time to practice. At the very least, it would be a welcome change to have someone skilled to talk to. The professors at the university were intelligent, but not accessible, and Roy found most of his classmates in the alchemy courses to be considerably below his standard. He ached for a challenge, for a chance to improve his skills. Though he had to keep his flame alchemy tightly under wraps, he still would love to mess around with rocks and rails under the supervision of a State Alchemist.

It would bring him one step nearer to his dreams. He wrote the letter, submitted it, and prayed that he would be chosen while winter descended over Central and the weeks slipped swiftly by.


	23. Unreasonable Misery

**Chapter 23: Unreasonable Misery**

On the seventeenth of January, Roy Mustang was having a terrible night. Everything was going so well, but tonight that didn't matter. He was absolutely miserable. But he was bound and determined not to let it show.

He smoothed his uniform front and sauntered across the room, abandoning his third whiskey of the evening to approach a buxom brunette who was leaning against the bar. She was wearing a low-cut blue frock that set off her figure to perfection, and a pair of dainty satin gloves with purple sequins decorating the cuffs. Her hair was cut in a short, perky bob that reminded him for an instant of Riza. He slid onto the stool next to her, and put out a hand to stop her from reaching into her handbag.

"Let me," he said as suavely as he could. "What're you drinking?"

She looked him over with her blue eyes, which were heavily rimmed in glossy makeup. Roy wondered whether she was a student from the university, or maybe an actress. She wasn't much older than he was, anyway.

"A screwdriver," she said. "Thanks, handsome."

Roy had to stop himself from grinning. This was working better than he had expected! Usually he had to flirt for a while before a girl responded. He crooked his finger at the bartender. "Whiskey on the rocks for me, and a screwdriver for the lovely lady."

He turned back to the girl. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Tallulah," she answered, puckering her painted lips becomingly. She had a rich, throaty voice, and her breath smelled of mint. "It means _abundance_." She leaned closer to him. "So, soldier... lonely tonight?"

Roy laughed a little, ruefully. "Kind of," he admitted before he could stop himself.

"Break up with your girlfriend?" Tallulah asked.

"No, nothing like that," Roy said hastily. "I haven't got a girlfriend. Not... a regular one."

"I understand," she said. Her eyes travelled to his epaulettes. "Cadet?"

"Second class," Roy admitted. Damn, she was sharp. A lot of girls didn't know the rank insignias: he had been mistaken more than once for a lieutenant.

"Good," she said.

"Good?" Roy echoed, surprised.

"Mm-hmm. The military won't be stealing you away for another seventeen months. We lose most of our best boys to the front lines, you know." She fluttered her eyelashes.

"I suppose so," said Roy. At that moment, the bartender came up with their drinks. Roy took his whiskey and knocked back a quick, comfortable mouthful. It warmed his stomach, and he could already feel himself relaxing. Maybe in a little while he would propose that they go somewhere else – somewhere where there was dancing. Tallulah looked like she would be an excellent dancer.

"You might be a second-class cadet, but you drink like a lieutenant colonel," the young lady commented, sipping daintily at her screwdriver. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were nursing a broken heart."

"I'm not," Roy said.

"Where is she?" Tallulah asked. "Your special girl."

"In East City," he said, then caught himself. "I mean, I told you I didn't have a girlfriend."

"That may be so," commented Tallulah; "but I can tell you're missing somebody."

"It's not just her," Roy confessed. "I... my best friend's out west learning how to be a city plod, and my classmates are all right, but they're not... you know. They're... I don't know if I can trust them."

"Ah, I see." She nodded wisely and moved ever so slightly – just enough that her knee brushed against Roy's. "That's the trouble with the world today. There's no way to know who you can trust, and who's just using you."

"I can trust Maes," Roy said. He went to take another swallow of whiskey only to discover that his glass was empty. How had that happened? He gestured to the barkeep for another.

"Sure you can, honey," Tallulah said. "She's one in a million."

"He's a he," Roy said.

Tallulah's eyes widened a little. "Really?" she said smoothly, only a little of her surprise filtering into her voice.

Roy nodded. "My best friend."

"Oh..." She laughed a little. "For a second there, I thought... never mind." She reached out and put one of her hands over his. She had long fingers, and the satin of her glove felt smooth and cool, but it was almost clinical. Roy shivered and tugged away.

Tallulah got up and came around behind him. "Don't freeze on me, now," she said softly, rubbing his arms and moving her hands sensuously up to his shoulders. "I've just seen it all, that's it. Tell me more about your friend."

Roy turned a little so that he could see her in his peripheral vision. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm not... usually like this. Tell me a bit about yourself."

"Oh, you don't want to hear about _me_!" Tallulah said airily. "Besides, I have a feeling you could use somebody to talk to. What's wrong?"

"I got a letter today," Roy confessed, taking another long quaff of the whiskey. "Things have been good. Great. I've been happy. But today I got a letter. From the office of the Twisted Jade Alchemist. I'm... I've been accepted to write the exam in May. I'll pass it, too. I know I'll pass it: Brigadier General Grumman told me I would if I learned my sensei's secrets. And I wanted to tell somebody, but... but there wasn't anybody to tell. The others wouldn't understand. They don't know what it's been like trying to save up, and practicing, and hoping, and... and... Maes would understand, but he's not here. And Riza would be happy for me, but she's not here either, and..." He sighed wearily.

"And you're lonely," Tallulah said quietly.

"Yeah," Roy confessed in a hollow whisper. "Yeah. I'm lonely."

He flinched, realizing what he had just said. Girls weren't interested in listening to litanies of problems. They wanted guys who made them feel special, not pathetic kids who whined about being lonely and discouraged...

But Tallulah didn't brush him off. She leaned forward and kissed his ear. "I can help," she whispered. "I mean, I probably don't know what it's been like, but I can be happy for you. And I can _definitely _distract you."

Roy smiled feebly. "Yeah?"

Tallulah nodded. "Guaranteed," she said. Then she smiled seductively. "Whaddaya say we head somewhere else. Maybe somewhere more private?"

"Where?" Roy asked.

"I know a little place just up the street," Tallulah said. "There's a bar, a lovely quiet lounge, an _upstairs_."

"Music?" Roy asked. He was vaguely aware that he was tipsy, but his tumbler was empty again.

"We've got a brand new Victrola," she promised.

"A what?"

"A gramophone. Imported from Creda. Don't tell anybody." She winked at him and offered him her arm. "C'mon. The night is young: we don't want to waste it here."

So Roy found himself stepping out into the night on the arm of a beautiful woman. He was a little unsteady on his feet, but she kept him on an even keel as they rounded the corner.

The building was a storefront like any other, save that the windows were obscured by heavy red velvet drapes. Inside, there was a foyer with plush sofas and chaises. A couple of young women were lounging on them, gossiping together. There was a bar against one wall, and a craggy-faced man with uncommonly broad shoulders stood behind it, polishing a silver fruit bowl while he conversed with an older woman. To Roy's astonishment, she was wearing a satin kimono over a delicate negligee that, in some incredible feat of engineering, appeared to provide adequate support for her ample bosom.

"Hey, what the hell..." he started.

Tallulah followed his gaze. "Oh, don't mind her," she said. "She's the junior partner. Hey, Christabelle, you're scaring the customers!"

The woman turned and snorted. "Don't be fresh with me, my girl!" she said. Then she looked at Roy. "Hey there, soldier," she said.

"M-ma'am," Roy stammered, wondering blearily what kind of a place this was.

"What's your name, son?" the older woman asked, patting the stool next to her.

"Chris, come on!" Tallulah said, rolling her eyes. "He's not here to make conversation!"

"Don't be silly: what else would he be here? He's just a kid. C'mere cadet, and have a seat."

"Whiskey, please," Roy said to the bartender as he made his unsteady way to the proffered stool. "On the rocks."

"I don't think so," said Christabelle firmly. "Harry, get us a coffee, hey?"

"Hey, he's mine—" Tallulah said. Suddenly her voice wasn't quite so sultry or seductive. She sounded angry.

"No he's not," Christabelle contradicted. "Go on and take a walk, honey. Plenty more fish in the sea."

"He's not interested in _you_!" the younger woman snapped. "You're old enough to be his mother!"

"Which tells me he's too young for you to drag upstairs. Especially dead drunk. You wouldn't be here if you were sober, would you, son?"

Roy blinked. The alcohol was beginning to take effect, and even he had to admit that he wasn't in a condition to be making executive decisions – but what were these women talking about? What _was _this place?

"Hey, _he_ offered to buy _me _a drink!" Tallulah argued. "I fully intend to close the deal!"

Christabelle's eyebrows arched, and she fixed the younger woman with a withering stare. "Get out," she said. "I'm not going to have any of my girls taking advantage of lonely, drunk little soldier-boys. Go now, and I'll make sure you're compensated for the wasted time. One more word of argument, and you'll be looking for a new house."

"Don't go..." Roy mumbled thickly, trying to turn to look at Tallulah but losing his balance as he did so. He would have fallen off of the stool, save that Christabelle caught his arm and steadied him.

"It's okay, hon," she said. "I'll keep you company. Tallulah's got other things to do tonight."

The younger woman snorted angrily, but turned and strode out of the bar, slamming the door behind herself. Roy cringed at the noise. The bartender appeared out of nowhere, two cups of coffee in hand.

"Thanks, Harry," the woman said, taking Roy's hand and putting it on the mug. "Drink up, son."

"Why'd you do that?" the bartender asked. "I've never seen you horn in on the girls' action before."

"He's just a kid. How old are you, son? Eighteen?"

"Nineteen," Roy said indignantly. He hadn't been taken for younger than he was in a long while, but he discovered that it was just as annoying now as it had always been.

"Old enough to decide what he wants," Harry the bartender said.

Christabelle shrugged. "He reminds me of my late husband," she said.

"Which one?" Harry muttered. Then he moved off to the other end of the bar as a young woman and a bearded man came in from another room.

The older woman looked at Roy. "You've had a lot to drink, soldier," she said.

"Maybe," Roy said. It was hard to think. He was drunk and he was still feeling very morose. Everything had been going so well lately. _Why_ did he feel so awful? Oh. The letter. Maes. Riza. God, he was so lonely...

"What's on your mind?"

What was the use? "I don't wanna talk about it," he mumbled.

"Too bad. I want to hear."

He blinked at her. Her tone was very different from Tallulah's, but...

"I'm lonely," he whispered. "I don't have any friends."

"A nice kid like you? I don't believe that for a minute." She smiled. It wasn't a seductive smile like Tallulah's. It was genuine. "You must have a friend."

Roy nodded miserably. "He's in West City," he said. "He's finished. Second Lieutenant Maes Hughes, now. He's gone."

"I see. That's the trouble with the military: you boys never get to stay put for long. Must be hard." She nudged his arm. "Come on, drink your coffee."

It was hot and bitter, but Roy obeyed. There was something in her manner that did not brook argument. It reminded him of... of the way that Gareth Hughes could make his brothers do their chores, or eat their supper, or do pretty much anything else he told them to.

"What's your name, son?" Chris asked.

"Roy," he murmured, staring into the inky depths of the coffee before taking another mouthful. "Roy Mustang."

From the other side of the long counter, the bartender let out a sharp laugh. "How 'bout that! Maybe he _is_ your son!"

"Hush, Harry. Where are you from, Roy?"

"I'm..." But he wasn't _from_ Hamner: he'd only lived there. "That is..." But though he had been _born_ in Youswell he had no recollection of living there. "I mean..." But his only memories of East City were unhappy ones, and it certainly was not home. "Nowhere," he said at lost. "Nobody from Nowhere, that's me."

"Don't be silly. You're not a nobody."

"I am," Roy said bitterly. The liquor had loosened his tongue and stolen his coordination. Now it was giving voice to insecurities ordinarily hidden under layer upon layer of bravado, self-confidence and brash swaggering. "No home. No parents. Nothing."

He stared down at his hands. "I don't know who I am," he whispered miserably.

The woman took the mug from him and set it on the bar. "I'll tell you what," she said. "You come and lie down for a while. Then later, when you've sobered up a little, we can talk about it."

"I don't talk about it," Roy protested softly as she led him up the stairs. "I never talk about it. Never, ever."

"Of course not, honey," the woman soothed. "But for now, you need some sleep. You're very, very drunk."

Roy had to admit that that was certainly true.

_discidium_

When Roy woke up with a cotton mouth and a splitting headache in a broad feather bed in a room full of _arte nouveau _paintings and heavy upholstery, it took him a good five minutes to remember where he was and why. Lying there and staring at the ceiling, puzzling over the night's events, he suddenly realized what had happened. This place wasn't a bar, it was a brothel. And 

Tallulah, whom he had taken for a student or an actress, was a prostitute.

Roy knew the theory behind prostitutes: there were very few things one didn't hear about when one lived in the company of soldiers. But sex was still something of a mystery to him: his forays into womanizing had never progressed further than passionate kisses and the occasional furtive groping of silk-clad breasts. When he had approached Tallulah in the bar, he had had no intention whatsoever of making love to her. All he had wanted...

He pushed that to the back of his mind. That was ridiculous. He wasn't lonely. He wasn't unhappy. He was Cadet Second Class Roy Mustang, and he was any man's equal. He had nothing to be morose about: his life was perfect! Everything was going according to plan. He would write the State Alchemist exam in May. He would pass. By the summer, he would be a major instead of a lowly cadet; one of the pillars off the Amestrian military. A person of power, with the ability to mould the future of the nation. He would protect the people – not only from the threat of invasion, but from poverty and hunger and despair. Everything was perfect.

If only he had somebody to talk to...

No. There was no "if only". Everything was perfect. He was happy. He _was_.

There was only one person in the lounge when he found his way down the stairs: the woman named Christabelle. She was sitting with her feet on an overstuffed ottoman, eating from a bowl of grapes. She looked up when she heard Roy's approaching footfalls.

"Good morning!" she said. "Did you sleep well?"

"Fine," Roy asked. "Listen, about last night..."

To his surprise, she laughed at him. "Don't say another word!" she said. "I've seen more than one drunk soldier in my time. Do you want a ride back to campus? I don't drive myself, but I could roust Harry out of bed to take you.

"No. No thank you. Ma'am, I wanted to apologize explain. I'm not lonely, I'm—"

"I told you, you don't have to explain. You were drunk."

Roy rubbed the back of his neck, looking down at his rumpled uniform. "Yeah... Yeah, I was."

"My late husband used to drink, too. Tom, I mean. Not Jack. Or Duong. Though if you ask me, Duong had more cause to." She clicked her tongue and broke off another bunch of grapes. "He was Xingese. Like you."

"I'm not Xingese. I was born in Youswell," Roy said defensively. He was sensitive about that topic. His classmates no longer needled him about his exotic features, but the memory of the days when they had still clung to him like a miasma.

"Is that so?" the woman said softly. "My husband had a nephew who was born in Youswell. Duong, not Jack. Or Tom."

"That's nice," Roy said politely.

"Not really. My husband never met him: Duong's brother and his wife were killed in a fire, and the boy was taken into the custody of the State." She fixed keen, piercing eyes upon him, and suddenly Roy felt uncomfortable, as if she could see right through him. "Last night, you said you had no parents."

"I thought I didn't have to explain about last night," Roy said.

"You don't," she said. "I was only curious."

Roy shifted uncomfortably. Suddenly he wasn't at all sure of himself. And his head was pounding. And this woman was looking at him as if she knew everything about him. "Who are you?" he ventured.

She only smiled.

"Nobody special."


	24. In These Confines

**Chapter 24: In These Confines**

The military academy was everything that Riza had hoped for... and more!

As a small child she had been an active one. Though fully capable of sitting quietly for long periods of time (and fortunately so, or she might never have survived), she had never been happier that when she was outdoors, charging about the yard on her hobby horse or building marvellous structures in the sand pile. She had loved the summers spent roaming the creek bluffs and climbing trees with Ben Hughes. Now, she spent four to six hours of each day engaged in some form of arduous physical activity – from running endless laps around the track, to resistance training in the gymnasium, to , to martial arts and hand-to-hand combat. Her willowy body grew hard with lean muscles, and she could bench press seventy-five pounds. Her goal was to reach one hundred and twenty, which was ten pounds more than her own bodyweight.

The physical training was not the only part of the program that she loved. Riza had grown up with books for company, and during her scant years of formal schooling she had absorbed knowledge like a deep-sea sponge. Now she was living a childhood dream and attending university. Two mornings a week, she walked or jogged the four miles to the Eastern University campus on the opposite end of the city. She was taking an assortment of courses in natural sciences, history and philosophy, and she was doing very well indeed. Many of the other cadets chafed at the academic requirements and complained about the workload, but this opportunity was one of the reasons that Riza had wanted to enrol in the academy in the first place.

Nor did she share her compatriots' attitude towards the strict discipline of military life. Most of her classmates were farm boys or the children of shopkeepers. A few, like Steph and Lucy, were young people looking to escape a life of backbreaking menial labour. Riza had more in common with her compatriots than she had expected to, for they were not the over-privileged social elite of Central Academy, but in one respect she was very different from the other cadets. Most of them had lived largely unstructured lives; casual, unfettered childhoods where the only firmly enforced rule was that chores must be completed on time. None of the cadets to whom Riza spoke seemed to have grown up with firm expectations of silence and obedience. She had a feeling that most of them had never sat still for more than an hour or two, nor been chastised for asking questions, nor upbraided for playing too loudly.

Part of her was jealous, but she still had to admit that her father's strict and abusive approach to parenting gave her an advantage. Closing her mouth and obeying an order swiftly and efficiently was second nature to her, where many of her classmates still struggled with the concept. Riza, indeed, thrived upon the enforced order. It was nothing she had not lived through before, with one important exception. The expectations were clear. They were carved in stone (or at least written in the regulations manual). If she learned the rules, and followed them meticulously, she would not be upbraided. She would even be praised. It was a formula that made sense: the military, unlike her father, was unshakable and predictable. It was a wondrous thing.

So all-in-all, Riza was happy. Then, near the end of January, she had an unexpectedly abominable day.

_discidium_

It began, like any other day, at oh-five-hundred when Master Sergeant Rosenflower got out of bed. The barracks master was very quiet, and his awakening did not rouse any of the other girls, but for Riza – who had never before in her life shared a room with other people – it was enough to stir her from her deep and well-earned slumber. As always, she lay very still while he made his cot, gathered his uniform and his shaving kit, and slipped out into the darkness, letting in the briefest of drafts as he went. Then she got up and ran a hand through her hair, which as always had dried into strange spikes while she slept.

Her morning routine was rigid, and she never deviated from it. She made her bed swiftly and perfectly: corners squared, blanket as smooth as glass, counterpane folded into a perfect rectangle across the foot. Then she dressed: it was important that she do this before any of the others were awake, because to do so she had to bare her back. Off came the military-issued pyjama shirt, which was made for a man, and was hopelessly too large. Riza quickly slipped into the plain undershirt, which fit better. The moment of crisis was past, then, and she could don the rest of her uniform in peace.

Except that when she sat down on the end of her cot to pull on her boots, she realized that the girl in the next bed was wide awake, and watching her in the grey half-light.

"What's that?" Cadet Northrop hissed. Riza felt the bottom fall out of her stomach, knowing full well what the other girl had seen.

"What's what?" she countered with as much nonchalance as she could muster.

"On your back. Is that a _tattoo_?"

"Hush! Of course not!" Riza hissed. Ida Northrop was a notorious gossip. There was a crack among the cadets that if a secret was uttered within earshot of her at dawn, it was the hot topic around campfires in the Credoan trenches by nightfall. If Riza didn't diffuse this _now_...

"It is! It's _huge_!"

"Northrop, be _quiet!_ You'll wake everybody up!" Riza pleaded.

"Then dish, honey. Where'd you get it?" She was up on her elbows now, an eager light in her blue eyes. It was a scandal, and she knew it.

"Nowhere," Riza said. "It's nothing, really."

"In Central? What's it symbolize? A cup and a... a circle of some kind... and those words, what language is that?"

"It's... it's..." There had to be something that Riza could say – _anything_ that would distract the insatiable tattler. She wished fervently that Mr. Mustang were here. He could lie his way out of anything. "It's Ishballan," she said.

If possible, Northrop's eyes went even wider. "_What?_" she squealed.

"M—my grandmother was from Ishbal," Riza said. "It's... a prayer." She closed her eyes, and to her amazement a memory came flooding back. Her mother – long dark hair and sprigged dress – on her knees in the parlour, hands clasped and head bowed over a daguerreotype... repeating the same words over and over again; a prayer for the soul of her only son. "_Ishbala, watch over Davell. In life You loved him. Gather him into Your arms and bear him on the wings of the morning, to dwell with You in paradise. Comfort we who remain here, and... and give us the strength to trust in Your love, and to live as You would wish us to, so that one day we may once again be reunited with Davell and with all of our loved ones who have died in You._"

Riza opened her eyes with a cathartic gasp. She had had no idea that those words were pent up inside of her, and the memories that came with them... she had forgotten so much of those early days. Of Momma and her encroaching madness, the increasingly erratic behaviour, forgotten chores, neglected meals. Her father's frustration. Doctor Bella's interventions. That terrible day when the men in dark suits had come to carry her mother away.

Momma, wrapped in a quilt in a strong stranger's arms, crying out for Davell until the last moment. Not for Riza, her living child, but for Davell...

"Hey, hey, don't cry... don't _cry_!" Ida Northrop exclaimed in horror.

"I'm not!" Riza snarled, her hand moving defiantly to her cheek. It came away wet, and she stared down at her fingers as if they belonged to someone else. "I..."

"Who's Davell?" asked the other cadet.

"My brother," Riza said. "He died when I was..." Her brow furrowed. How had Davell died? The treehouse. She remembered Roy – Mr. Mustang – in the treehouse with Ben's little brother. Father had been so angry. He had locked her in the yard while he disciplined Mr. Mustang – Roy – Mr. Mustang...

Strange. How had she forgotten that?

Ida was staring at her, mingled shock and pity on her face. "I'm sorry," she said.

Riza was trembling, and she didn't understand why. She was having a hard time remembering where she was, and when. The dark barracks with the rows of sleeping girls seemed distant, and the memories flashing through her mind were so clear. Roy leaping between her and her angry father – _Mr. Mustang, Mr. Mustang, Mr. Mustang_... Her teeth rattling in her head as her father shook her. Rough hands stripping her shirtwaist from her back. Needle pricks biting endlessly, endlessly into her skin...

"Hey, Hawkeye, you gonna be sick?" Northrop asked unhelpfully, clearly horrified. "Hey! Hey, Hawkeye!"

Then suddenly someone had Riza by the shoulders and was leading her away, hurrying her from the barracks and out into the cold winter morning. Firm, capable hands held her as she trembled.

"Hey, Riza. Riza. It's okay. I'm here. It's okay."

It was Lucy.

"It's all right, Riza. If you've gotta ralph, it's better to get it over with."

"I don't," Riza breathed, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth. She was covered in a sheen of perspiration, but the cold air was helping. It was grounding her, bringing her back and planting her firmly in the present. "I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," Lucy said. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Riza lied. "Nothing."

For a moment she was afraid that her friend would call her bluff, but Cadet Bacall only shrugged. "Then can we go back inside?" she asked. "I'm freezing!"

She pointed down at her feet, bare beneath the baggy legs of her pyjamas, and turning vividly red with their contact with the frostbitten ground. Lucy twisted her face into a caricature of a grimace that made Riza laugh... a little.

_discidium_

Cadet Jefferson slid his leg forward, twisted his wrist and then jerked both shoulders as he flung Riza over his head. She landed with a concussive _thud! _on the mat.

"Hawkeye!" Second Lieutenant Graves scolded. "Pay attention! You can do this in your sleep! Stop staring at the audience: they don't care what you're doing."

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir!" Riza barked. She tried to focus on the bout, on circling her opponent. He was bigger than she was – but that was true of almost all of her classmates, and anyway it was no guarantee of defeat. On any other day, she could have beaten Jefferson in two minutes, because he was clumsy and he had lousy balance. Today...

Northrop was in the centre of a knot of cadets, whispering animatedly and now and then looking at Riza. She could only guess what the girl was saying. _Hawkeye has a tattoo on her back. An alchemy circle. Strange words in a foreign language. Hawkeye's harbouring a secret. Power. Alchemy. Hawkeye has a tattoo on her back._

_discidium_

Riza found it impossible to concentrate during the Tactics lecture that afternoon. Ida Northrop sat at the back of the classroom, and during pauses in the instructor's words Riza could hear the whispering. She knew what they were saying.

_Snakes and an alchemical sigil. It must be some kind of powerful secret: why else would someone tattoo it on her back? Does anybody here know anything about alchemy? Maybe we could decipher it, break the code..._

She thought of Mr. Mustang. His dreams, his future, his whole life relied upon passing the State Alchemist exam this spring. To do that he would have to impress the committee with his prowess, to prove that he was more capable than any other candidate, more worthy of State certification. His success relied upon his unique talents. If anyone else discovered her father's secrets, his talents would no longer be unique...

_discidium_

The first-year cadets had an hour on the track that afternoon. Riza loved running: it gave her a sense of power and grace unlike anything else she had ever experienced. This time, though, she couldn't enjoy it. She soon wound up near the head of the pack, and quickly gained on the laggards, but as she lapped Ida and her friends, she caught her name, and she knew what they were talking about.

_Hawkeye. Her back. A tattoo! Alchemical secrets! Hawkeye's back! Her back! I've never seen anything so hideous – Hawkeye's back is _covered_ in an enormous tattoo! What kind of a girl would let somebody tattoo an alchemical code on her back?_

And Riza knew that she was an abject failure.

_discidium_

Not until suppertime did Riza discover what Ida had in fact been saying. A couple of her male classmates cornered her as she moved to sit down.

"Hey, Hawkeye!" said one. "I heard an interesting rumour."

Riza couldn't breathe. The truth was out. Everyone knew.

"Yeah," said the other. "Northrop says you're half Ishbalan."

"That explains the eyes," the first one put in, sneering a little.

Riza waited for the other shoe to fall. It didn't.

"Are you here to spy on us, half-breed?" asked the second cadet. "Gonna sell Amestrian secrets to the rebels?"

His friend roared with laughter. "Lucky she's at Eastern!" he chortled. "We've got no secrets in this dump!"

And they walked off, chuckling like a couple of baboons. Riza let loose a breath that she had not realized she was holding.

That was all? She was half Isballan? _That_ was the rumour Ida had been spreading? For one thing, it wasn't even true, and for another, well, she'd rather her heritage became public knowledge than any of her other secrets.

_discidium_

But Amestris was in conflict with the people of Ishbal. That evening, Riza received more than one dubious look. Some of the other girls seemed afraid to speak to her. A third-year cadet spat on her boots as he passed her in the hall. It seemed as if everyone knew, and no one liked it. Riza knew that in a few days this would all blow over: her eyes were the only indication that she had any Ishballan blood at all, and anyway Lucy had promised to spread a rumour of her own – that Hawkeye was the granddaughter of Brigadier General Grumman. _How_ Lucy had found this out was not something that Riza had any desire to ask.

The fact remained, though, that Ida Northrop had seen the tattoo. She had seen it, even if she thought nothing of it. That her scatterbrained mind could only process one piece of gossip at one time was a possibility that Riza hardly dared hope was true. She might remember at any moment, and _that_ scandal would be far worse than any slurs about Riza's tainted pedigree.

The very thought made Riza sick to her stomach.

_discidium_

To round out the perfect day, the unthinkable happened that night.

For months, Riza's neat little arrangement regarding her bathing routine had worked perfectly. Though most of the other girls had long ago deduced what she was doing, none had complained about it or threatened to report her. They did occasionally tease her about being a prude, but since Riza had to admit that that was basically true, it didn't hurt to hear it. The ungodly hour at which she visited the shower bunker guaranteed her solitude and her safety from unexpected encounters with the other four-fifths of her class, too. After five successful months, Riza was comfortable in her unorthodox routine: nothing could go wrong.

She was scrubbing her hair with vigour, as if by doing so she could wash away the stigma of the awful day, when she heard an ominous _creak_.

Time seemed to stand still. Riza could hear her mind crying out that she wasn't alone, that someone was coming in, that she was standing here naked with her back – her horrific, dangerous, mutilated back over which she had been agonizing for the last twenty hours – to the door, and that someone was _coming in_! Then she whirled around, stumbling backwards to press her buttocks and her shoulder blades against the concrete wall.

The intruder was not Ida Northrop, coming to confirm what she had seen that morning. It was a male cadet with tousled, tow-coloured hair. He came through the door, tapping a cigarette as he raised it to his mouth. Then he spotted her and his eyes bulged enormously. His jaw went slack, but incredibly, the cigarette clung to its place, sagging from his lip without falling, like some kind of bizarre prosthetic.

Riza's hands flew to hide her bosom and her front, and she could not help the soft, mewling noise of wretched embarrassment that escaped from her lungs.

The dumbfounded cadet moved a hand almost hypnotically to pluck the cigarette from his lip. "_Gah..._" he said, completely inadequately.

"What do you want?" Riza squeaked. She had been doing this for _months _and no one had interrupted her. Why tonight? Because today was cursed, that was why. Her eyes darted longingly towards her pyjamas where they lay enticingly on the bench next to her greatcoat. The ten feet between herself and her dignity might as well have been ten miles. If she thought there had been gossip _today_, she should just wait until tomorrow!

"A-a smoke," the youth stammered. He was still staring at her as if he had never seen anything remotely like her. Riza realized with a fresh twist of mortification that he probably hadn't. She hugged her arm more tightly to her breasts, wishing futilely that the cracked cement would yawn open and swallow her.

It was small consolation, but the tall, bony cadet seemed almost as embarrassed as she was. There was a brilliant red flush across his cheekbones, and his eyes were now darting around the room as he desperately looked at anything and everything but her body.

"'M sorry," he babbled anxiously. "I'm on gate duty tonight, and it's cold. I can't smoke in the bog, 'cause the NCOs check 'em every hour, but nobody comes in here..."

"_I _do!" Riza challenged. "I've never seen you in here _before_."

"Naw, I'm usually here around oh-four-hundred," he admitted awkwardly. "I just needed one really badly tonight: I'm on duty with Loose Lips Larry, and he's hard on my nerves. Uh... you want a towel or something?"

"_Please_..." Riza exhaled. The other cadet took one from the shelves and moved to the edge of the drop-off, holding it out and staring resolutely at the ceiling. Riza had to suppress the urge to run towards the cloth. Instead, she edged along the wall, carefully keeping her back to it. She took the two necessary steps forward, snatched the towel, and flung it about her shoulders, covering the black web of ink – and incidentally her bosom.

"Thanks," she said softly.

The youth smiled at her. Then his eyes moved down and he flushed still more furiously. "S-sorry," he stuttered. "I guess you need two..."

He took the second one, and held it out so that Riza could wrap it around her waist, tucking it firmly into place.

"That's much better," she said, trying to put him at his ease. He looked like he, too, was longing for a fissure to open up beneath his feet. "Please don't let me keep you from your smoke."

"Y-yeah," he said. "Yeah, I think... uh, I think I need it more than ever now. N-no offence."

He dug into his pocket and produced a pack of matches, but his hands were shaking so badly that he couldn't make a spark. Riza reached out, took them, and struck a flame for him. He took two grateful puffs, and then a long, desperate drag as the cigarette caught alight.

"Thanks," he breathed, taking another lungful of smoke. "That's better."

"My pleasure," Riza said quietly. Realizing that she had left the water running, she shuffled back into the shower enclosure and turned off the two taps, clutching the towel around her shoulders.

The other cadet was almost finished his cigarette already. Now that the moment of crisis was over and her secret was hidden beneath the bleached terrycloth, Riza noticed that he was a second year – which made sense if he was on duty at the gate.

"You should probably get back," she said, trying to be helpful. "Before your partner wonders where you went."

"I told him I've got loose bowels," the other cadet said. "By tomorrow, that'll be all around campus, but..." He shrugged. "I'm a bit of a joke anyway. I'm not the brightest. I just... I wanted to enlist, but I was too young. I was only fifteen when I started here. I think my parents like it better this way: it'll be another couple years before I see any action. Maybe it'll all be over by then."

"What will?" Riza asked.

"The civil war," said the third-class cadet. At her puzzled expression, he translated. "You know, Ishbal."

"That's a rebellion," Riza said. "A handful of insurgents are—"

He shook his head. "Nope. I grew up right near there. It's not a few radicals. The whole region's up in arms. Civilians, old folks, women. Kids. And they're Amestrian citizens. We've got to end it. We have to take out the ringleaders and restore peace. I... it sounds stupid, I know, but I thought I could... maybe... help."

"I don't think that's stupid," Riza said softly. Indeed, it sounded familiar. This cadet's ambitions were not the grand dreams of Mr. Mustang, but they were certainly similar in principle. He wanted to restore order. To protect the people. It was heartening: perhaps she and Mr. Mustang were not wholly alone in their aspirations.

"Huh. Well, lots of people do. They say we should just kill them all, and be done with it, but I don't think—" He glanced uneasily over his shoulder at the closed door. Then he ground out his cigarette against the wall and dropped it in the dustbin. "I gotta go," he said. "Sorry about... you know. Catching you in the shower."

"It's okay," Riza said. "I'm not really supposed to be in here."

He laughed. "Neither am I!" he said. Then something seemed to occur to him. "Hey, why didn't you just turn your back when I came in?"

The truth was out of the question. Or at least that truth. "I believe you should face your problems," Riza said, honest even in her equivocation.

"Huh. Face your problems. I like that."

Then there was a brief flash of the lamplit grounds as he left the bunker. Riza dried herself and dressed as quickly as she could, hurrying back to the barracks. Oddly enough, the encounter with the older cadet seemed to put the day's travails into perspective. It was not long at all before Riza was able to drift off to sleep.

To her astonishment, there was no fallout from that evening's encounter. Apparently the other cadet had no interest in telling tales of his private peep-show. Perhaps that was because he didn't want to admit to smoking while on duty, but Riza preferred to think that it was because he wanted to respect her privacy and spare her the humiliation of such a story. In any case, she was eternally grateful for the young man's discretion.


	25. The State Alchemist

**Chapter 25: The State Alchemist**

The tracks went on past Lesser Marlburg, four hundred miles northwest of Central City, but the trains did not. Cadet Second Class Roy Mustang and his brand-new canvas kit bag travelled the last thirty-six miles on a handcart worked by a pair of burly labourers. They wore greasy coveralls and they sang as they worked the double-handled lever. Between that and the reepetetive squeaking of the vehicle, Roy had a splitting headache by the time they finally reached their destination.

The encampment was not quite at the end of the line, but it was within easy walking distance. A collection of canvas tents spread to either side of the rails: housing for the crews that laid the ties and drove in the spikes. There was a rough cabin with a heavy iron door: the payroll office and quartermaster's. A couple of narrow shanties housed the latrines. There was an outdoor mess area with a canopy-covered open-air kitchen. Set apart from the rest of the camp was a corral containing a single long tent. Roy later learned that this was for the convicts whose purpose in life was to break gravel for the rail beds.

The work day was not over, and the camp was all but deserted. There was no one to be seen but the guard by the payroll cabin, three NCOs busy preparing the evening meal, and a tall, slender, androgynous figure in uniform. This person strode towards the handcart like a cat on the prowl, stopping a few yards short. Roy took in the pale, ascetic face, the cold dark eyes and the smooth ebony hair – which was pulled back severely into a long, thin plait. Even at such close proximity, Roy was not certain of the person's gender until the officer spoke.

"You're the cadet?" she said.

"Yes, sir," Roy answered, hopping off of the cart and saluting rather dustily.

"I'm Captain Bathory, the Major's attaché and personal assistant. Welcome to the end of the line." She looked him over with a critical eye. "A little small for a soldier, aren't you?"

Roy squared his shoulders indignantly, inwardly cursing himself for slouching. Just because _she_ happened to be six feet tall – and she wasn't any broader than he was, either! It wasn't _his_ fault that all he could put on was lean muscle! "My weight complies with the usual requirements, I assure you, sir," he said.

"Really?" Bathory commented dryly, a hint of disdain tainting the word. "Take your kit and come with me. The Major has decided that you are to have your own tent."

"That would be very nice, thank you, sir," Roy said, thinking of Mark Zlotsky. Then he curled his lips into a suave smirk. "Unless _you'd_ like to share, sir."

"Don't thank me, cadet," Bathory said, completely ignoring his attempt at innuendo. Damn. So she wasn't going to fall for it like Captain Armstrong had. "If it were up to me, you'd be bunking with the warrant officers, but the Major has a... unique sense of propriety."

There was little that Roy could say to that, so he shut his mouth and followed the captain to a low canvas tent near the edge of the encampment. It was a simple two-pole affair, and peering inside Roy saw that it was furnished with an upturned packing crate, a tin washbasin, and a standard-issue bedroll.

"Drop your baggage. We'll be putting you straight to work."

"Great!" Roy exclaimed, momentarily forgetting his dignity. He had been looking forward to this for weeks: the opportunity to learn from one of the elite, a State Alchemist, someone who had achieved precisely what Roy hoped to... it was a priceless opportunity. He could almost hear Maes laughing at him and telling him how naive he sounded – but Maes wasn't around, was he? He was off in West City, learning how to direct traffic and arrest pickpockets.

Under a canopy by the tracks, a pair of military geologists were bent over tables full of ore samples while a skinny corporal who couldn't have been eighteen yet ran to and fro between them. A third table was overflowing with specimens of plant life: leaves, branches of pine needles, pieces of shrubs and bunches of wild grass and even glass jars full of lichen. It was to this table that Roy was led.

"You'll be working here," she said coolly. "You are to catalogue each sample and provide a summary of its constituents, paying especial attention to the presence of any heavy metals. Precision is of paramount importance. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," Roy replied. "When can I meet the Major?"

"He's on site today, blasting the piling holes. He doesn't have time to waste on cadets and neither do I. He told me that any alchemist worth his salt can do this job, so if you have problems, don't come to me. I hope I make myself perfectly clear?"

"Perfectly, sir," Roy said, grinding his teeth against his annoyance. If the alchemist didn't have time for cadets, why had he requested one?

By the time he composed himself again, Bathory was gone and he was alone with a table full of flora. Not knowing what else to do, Roy picked up one of the jars of lichen and looked helplessly at the two scientists. One was too absorbed in his own work to notice, but the other grinned sympathetically.

"Don't worry, son," he said. "They're all labelled, and the log'll tell you where they were picked up. Just go nice and slow and _be careful_. Nisbitt learned that the hard way, didn't you Nisbitt?"

"Yes, Mr. Lane, sir," the corporal said sheepishly.

Roy forced a smile and set to work. He quickly found that the work itself was pleasant enough. Botanical alchemy had never been an area of great interest to him, but his naturally inquiring mind was interested to learn the composition of the plants before him. The alchemy involved was simple, but some of the findings were surprising. There was a particular fern, for example, that contained quite a significant amount of cadmium. And who would have guessed that pine needles included trace amounts of gold?

Where he butted up against it was in the recording of the data. The ledger was cramped, and completely inadequate for the volume of information that he was expected to include. Written work had never been Roy's strong suit: he had not learned to read and write properly until he was almost nine years of age, and try though he had, he'd never quite made up the three-year deficit. As he worked, questions that never would have occurred to the majority of his classmates plagued him mercilessly. Was it "sulphur" or "sulfer"? Was there one "h" in "rhenium", or two? And how on _earth_ did you spell "hafnium"?

By the time the dinner bell sounded and work concluded for the day, Roy's headache had magnified and proliferated. Rather than sit around the fires with the other soldiers, he retreated to his tiny tent and slept.

_discidium_

"When do I get to meet the Major?" Roy asked at breakfast one morning.

Second Lieutenant McClelland – the only other commissioned officer on site, besides Captain Bathory and the elusive State Alchemist – chuckled ruefully. "Kid, you don't _want _to meet him."

"He's my preceptor," Roy argued. "I'm here to learn from him, and so far I haven't even seen him."

Warrant Officer Saunders grimaced at his plate of eggs. "Would it put you off the trail if I told you he's a very private man?" he asked.

A couple of the other soldiers laughed. "That'd be a lie, Saunders, and you know it!" one of them chortled.

"Truth is," said another, "he's too busy with Bathory to bother with students."

"I dunno: the kid looks like his type too, you know. Pale. Dark. No hips."

"No tits," a fourth piped up.

"If we _had_ to get stuck with a bird for a captain, couldn't she have been a _good-looking _bird?" asked McClelland.

"You shouldn't speak that way about a superior officer," Saunders muttered.

"But it's true," McClelland said. "Ain't that right, Mustang?"

Roy smirked. "Yeah, personally I prefer women who look like women. I mean, the duty uniform hides some of it, but not _that_ much. Are we sure Bathory's female? I mean _really_ sure."

This was met with some good-natured laughter. "Aw, if you'd see 'em together you'd know what we mean, kid," said one of the sergeants. "Nature popped 'em out of the same mould and then adjusted them to fit. No question about it."

"Who?" Roy asked curiously.

"Bathory and the Major," the NCO said, as if this should have been obvious.

"That's a lie, Clemens, and you know it!" McClelland snorted. "You know there's nothing natural about Major Kaboom!"

"You know he travelled with Circus Vargus? Before he took the State Alchemist exam?" a corporal interjected in a stage whisper.

"That's bullshit!"

"I dunno: he looks like a circus freak to me!"

"Did he juggle fire?"

"Naw, I'll bet he was a lion tamer!"

"A geek!"

"Close," the corporal said. "Only he didn't bite their heads off: he blew 'em up."

"Blew what up?" Roy asked curiously.

"Live chickens," said the NCO. "He blew up live chickens. Called himself Jan the Dynamite Man."

Almost everyone laughed. Clemens clapped the corporal on the back. "Good one, Danny," he applauded.

"I'm serious!" protested the soldier. "He blew up live chickens for Circus Vargus. My cousin knew a guy who had an affair with a trapeze artist who—"

Suddenly McClelland was on his feet, saluting crisply. "Captain Bathory!" he barked hoarsely. Around him, the other men scrambled to assume the same position as the androgynous woman strode towards the group.

"As you were," she said – but not until every last man was standing at attention. "Mustang. Come with me. The Major has a job for you."

"But it's twenty-two-hundred hours," Roy protested. "Sir."

"You're here to learn how to be an officer," she said. "That's a 'round the clock job, cadet."

"Yes, sir," Roy said with just a trace of impudence. He expected to be teased by the others as he stepped away from the fire, but they were silent. Probably afraid to speak in Bathory's presence – which made no sense to Roy. Certainly she was cold and self-assured (and not in the least attractive), but compared to Captain Armstrong she was a blushing violet.

She stopped before a large, square canvas tent, the inside of which Roy had not yet seen. She made no move to enter. "Inside," she said.

"Sir?" Roy said blankly.

"You heard me, cadet. Inside."

He opened the door flap and stepped through. The canvas was scarcely out of his hands when Bathory seized it from without and tied the laces firmly closed. Roy's pulse picked up a little. What was going on here?

The tent was dark, and after the bright firelight Roy was functionally blind. Instead, he focused on the movement of the air. Where he stood it was fresh and normally balanced – a function of being near the exit. Moving further into the cubic space, the gasses were more dense and stagnant, tainted with the subtle smells of human habitation. And there, towards the very back of the tent, was what Roy had expected to find: a higher concentration of carbon dioxide, indicating the presence of a person. As he focused his attention, he could feel the gasses moving in and out, swirling in the labyrinth of the lungs where nitrogen and oxygen were exchanged for the waste gasses.

"Hello, my young friend," the breathing presence said. The voice was low and ostensibly pleasant, but it made Roy uneasy. There was a subtle undercurrent of menace... or maybe it was just the fact that this man was breathing more deeply and slowly than a normal person had any right to. "What's your name, again?"

"Cadet Second Class Mustang, sir," Roy said, keeping his voice carefully modulated and confident.

"Your _given name_, cadet," said the man.

"Roy Mustang, sir."

There was a silence. Roy's eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness, and he was able to see the outlines of furnishings: two cots, a small table, several crates and what looked like a radio... and in the corner, the dark shadow of a lean man lounging in a chair, one arm draped lazily over its back.

"Are you afraid of me, Roy Mustang?" the voice inquired. As it did so, it grew deeper and more ominous.

"No, sir," Roy asserted. It was true... more or less. He wasn't _afraid_, exactly, but he was uneasy. There was something not quite right here. "It's an honour to have the chance to serve with you."

A low, trilling chuckle made the small hairs on the back of Roy's neck stand on end. "Yes, I imagine it is," said the man. "It isn't every little soldier boy who has a chance to learn from the military's most valued asset."

"Permission to speak frankly, sir?" Roy said.

"Granted," the man acknowledged gracefully, sounding more than a little amused.

"If you're the military's most valued asset, why are you laying railroad tracks in the middle of nowhere?" Roy forced the words out before he could rethink them. It was better to seem impertinent than nervous. Or at least, that was how the new Mustang felt.

Another laugh. "You're a cheeky little thing, aren't you? Come here so that I can take a look at you."

Roy took an uncertain step into the darkness, shuffling forward and praying fervently that he would not bark his shin on some unseen obstacle. "How are you going to get a look at me in here?" he asked saucily. "Unless you're a bat."

"Not a bat," the man said.

Roy stopped: he was less than a yard away from the seated shadow. The man moved his arm, and suddenly the room was flooded with blinding light.

"A tiger."

Roy blinked furiously, trying to resist the urge to cringe away. He could feel his pupils twitching and contracting in an attempt to compensate for the change in illumination, and as they did so the person before him gradually came into focus.

What struck Roy first was how much the Major looked like Captain Bathory.

He had the same sleek, dark hair. A delicately boned face with prominent cheekbones. Dark, glittering eyes and a thin, scornful mouth turned up in amusement.

"Sorry," he cooed. "Didn't mean to throw you off-balance."

He looked more like a panther than a tiger: coiled and ready to spring. He was wearing the bottom half of a military uniform: trousers and combat boots polished to ebony perfection – but he had removed his jacket and his shirt, and was sitting there in a standard-issue undershirt. The knotted muscles of his arm tensed as he set down the oil lamp with which he had blinded Roy. A long, slender hand flexed itself, and the lamplight glinted off of smooth, meticulously shaped nails.

"They didn't tell me they were sending someone so _young_," he remarked, looking Roy over with a critical eye. "The military must be recruiting right from the cradle these days."

Roy resisted the urge to bristle. For one thing, this alchemist wasn't more than eight or nine years his senior. For another, Roy knew for a fact that he had only been certified last year, and that unlike many State Alchemists he had no prior military service. That meant that Roy had been in the military for twice as long.

"Young soldiers are loyal soldiers," the major said, and there was amusement in his eyes as he spoke. "I understand you have a little knowledge of alchemy."

More than a little, Roy thought. Instead, he said; "I must have, or I wouldn't have been able to do the work you set me."

"Touché," said the alchemist. He cocked his head to one side, only emphasizing his feline aura. "You have a very pretty mouth, my little soldier boy."

"And you've got lovely fingernails," Roy countered. It was a defence mechanism that had served him well over the last couple of years: a little snark went a long way to covering discomfort and discouraging precisely this type of needling.

"Thank you," the man said graciously, inclining his head. "I put a lot of work into them. After all, an alchemist's hands are the primary tool of his art."

With that, he opened his fingers, exposing his palms. Roy stared in astonishment.

Major Kimbley had transmutation circles tattooed onto the palms of his hands. While that provided the initial shock, Roy was more alarmed by the circles themselves. They were simple sigils: both marked for fire, the one with two concentric circles within the triangle, and the other with a rampant "D". There were dozens of uses to which the first circle could be put. Indeed, it was almost identical to the one that Roy had been using over the last two weeks to break down botanical samples. He didn't recognize the second circle, but it should have been innocuous enough as well. Yet – perhaps because of the gossip about blowing up live chickens, perhaps because of the strange demeanour of the alchemist himself, perhaps because Roy's instincts outstripped his reason – the arrays seemed to radiate an ominous power.

And they were tattooed to his flesh... presumably because an array imprinted on human tissue was convenient, permanent, swiftly accessible... functional. That thought turned Roy's stomach. If arrays carved into a State Alchemist's palms were functional, then so was the one on Riza Hawkeye's back. He had always wondered, but had never dared to try. Now, it seemed, he was faced with evidence that the marks on Riza's back could indeed be used in the traditional manner, and he found himself visualizing the nuances of that array, trying almost instinctively to divine how the words and images around the central sigil would alter the transmutation.

"My, my. The little soldier boy is speechless. What's wrong? Haven't you ever seen a tattoo before?" asked Kimbley.

Roy forced a credulous smirk. "On your hands?" he said. "That must have hurt."

"It was nothing," said the alchemist, smiling coldly. "My maternal grandmother had a tigress on her back – now _that_ would have been painful."

Roy looked down at his own palms, unable to help himself. It was undeniably more effective than lipstick and eyebrow pencil. It wouldn't smudge, or wash away, or...

He pushed that thought to the back of his mind. It was ridiculous. Riza had been mutilated against her will by a half-demented old man bent on concealing his life's work from the world. It would cheapen her suffering for the youth to whom she had entrusted her secret to voluntarily maim himself just for convenience. Besides, flame alchemy still required a source of ignition: there was no point cutting corners with the circles.

"Impressive, isn't it?" asked the Major, flexing his fingers so that the markings rippled. "Not something that just anyone would have the guts to do. But then, that's what sets State Alchemists apart. We're willing to do anything to advance our cause."

He leaned forward, his keen eyes boring into Roy's. "I understand from your paper that _you're _interested in becoming a State Alchemist. How badly do you want it?"

"Does it matter?" Roy asked.

"Of course it matters. It's easy to have lofty goals and ambitious dreams. The measure of a man is how far he is willing to go to achieve those dreams. How far are _you_ willing to go, little baby alchemist?"

The man's eyes were so intense; almost hypnotic. Roy's heart was pounding. There was danger here, strange and intangible danger. The old Roy Mustang would have cringed and fawned and said something meek and servile. The new Roy Mustang had another defence mechanism: just as effective, and much more fun.

He smirked enormously and gave his head a cocky toss.

"As far as it takes," he said. "As long as I don't have to compromise my love life."

Kimbley laughed.


	26. Working on the Railroad

Note: A thousand apologies about the inconsionable delay in posting! Real life strikes again. A thousand thank-yous to those who reviewed during my lengthy absence: it was so encouraging to come back and still have reviews. Thank you SO MUCH! I only hope it's worth the wait...

**Chapter 26: Working on the Railroad**

None of the men working on the north-western line liked Major Kimbley. They did not trust him. They feared him. He was not one of them, and that was painfully obvious even to the lowliest soldier and the densest of the convict-labourers. Fortunately, none of them had much need to work directly with the alchemist. Most of the work was overseen by Master Sergeant Vernon, the military engineer in charge of the project, and any issues of discipline were managed by Captain Bathory, who on most days did her job very well.

Roy quantified her performance with _on most days_ because she was not quite reliable. There were mornings when she was not seen outside of the tent she shared with Major Kimbley before eleven hundred hours – and on those days she was easily distracted and quick to lash out at anyone and everyone. More than once Roy had seen her at one of the troughs around the encampment, scrubbing her hands compulsively and muttering to herself. Had he been a little more sure of himself – or a pathological snoop like, say, Maes Hughes – he might have made some attempt to figure out what was eating her on those days. As it was, he had problems of his own.

Unlike most of the others, he couldn't avoid the occasional run—in with the strange State Alchemist. Major Kimbley was, after all, his preceptor, and though the man was generally content to ignore Roy, he came by occasionally to breathe over his pupil's shoulder. Oddly enough, he didn't seem to have any interest in whether or not Roy was completing the tasks set by Captain Bathory. Instead, he preferred to push the boundaries of the cadet's patience and comfort.

Roy was grading ore samples one afternoon when a cool hand descended on the back of his neck. He stifled a startled gasp and fought the urge to turn around – though he couldn't help dropping the rock he had been holding.

"Did I frighten you, Cadet?" a gleeful voice queried right into Roy's ear.

"Please don't do that," Roy said in what he hoped was a suitably annoyed voice. He had a sneaking suspicion that he sounded more like the _other _Roy Mustang, though – the one who still had inexplicable dreams of empty night skies, and of a valiant young girl in sombre mourning clothes; the one who was neither cocky nor self-assured nor charming. The Roy Mustang he wished he could obliterate entirely in favour of the new, improved model. Maybe.

Kimbley's low chuckle confirmed Roy's worst fears. "Please don't do that what?" he asked pointedly.

He was angling for an honorific: reminding Roy of the chain of command, which placed the cadet entirely in the older man's power. Mustang had noticed that the Major liked power games. It was one of the reasons that the older enlisted men had such contempt for him, guarded with fear though that contempt was. To them, rank was something to be earned, step by step. They had infinitely more respect for Warrant Officer Saunders, who was forty-two and would never rise any further than his present station, than they would ever have for Major Kimbley; for Saunders had worked hard for his rank, and paid for it with years of loyal service. Kimbley was a major only because he had a specialized skill that the military needed. In the eyes of the men, that made him no different from Alexander Lane, the elderly geologist who didn't even have a commission... and who was now watching the two alchemists warily from the next table.

"Please don't _breathe in my ear_," Roy said, boldly (and perhaps stupidly) refusing to give the man the satisfaction of the mandated "sir". "It tickles. Like having a fat old cat on my shoulder."

"So now I'm a cat, am I?" Kimbley said, coming around and leaning on the worktable, resting one thigh upon it and swinging his booted foot languidly. "Does that make you the mouse?"

"I'm halfway through if you want to look at the log," Roy said resolutely. "You haven't shown much interest in my work yet. I only have three weeks left."

"Why would I be interested in your work?" Kimbley asked, eyes widening a little in feigned surprise.

Roy gritted his teeth. "You're my preceptor, sir," he said. "Why ask for a student if you didn't want one?"

"Oh, I didn't say I wasn't interested in _you_..." the State Alchemist crooned, grinning unpleasantly. He reached out and placed his index finger under Roy's chin, digging the nail into the soft flesh behind the jawbone. Applying just enough pressure that Roy had no choice but to follow his motion, Kimbley turned the cadet's head to one side. "You know, cadet, you _do _have a very pretty face."

"Oi!" exclaimed Mr. Lane sharply, getting to his feet with remarkable speed for one of his age. "Leave him be. He doesn't like that."

"How do you know what he likes?" Kimbley hissed, sudden menace flashing in his eyes as he turned on the old man. For a moment, Roy thought, the alchemist looked... well, not quite sane. Then, faced with the geologist's outthrust jaw, Kimbley removed his hand, buffing the index fingertip with the side of his thumb, and he grinned at the cadet. "Now, then, Mustang... your letter of intent says you want to become a State Alchemist."

"That's right, sir," Roy said as levelly as he could, hating the slight tremor that warped the first syllable. "I'll be taking the exam this year – that's why my placement ends two days early."

"Who says your placement ends early?" Kimbley asked, sitting back a little and surveying his charge with a critical eye.

"Lieutenant Colonel Brighton," Roy said, suddenly apprehensive. The colonel had been very clear on that point: since Roy wouldn't have weekends away from his placement like those of his classmates in closer proximity to Central, it was not unreasonable for him to terminate two days early in order to return to the city for the State Alchemist exam. The officer had, in fact, been quite receptive to the proposal and Roy had only assumed that he had written to inform the Major...

"Who?" queried the alchemist innocently.

"The staff advisor at the Academy... he said—"

"Oh, Brighton from the _Academy_!" Kimbley said, snapping his fingers. "_That_ must have been what was in that letter."

"So you got it?" Roy asked.

Kimbley looked at him blankly. "Got what?"

"The Lieutenant Colonel's letter..."

"No, I didn't," Kimbley said happily, picking up the piece of paper on which Roy had been recording his findings for the last three hours.

"But you said..."

"Must've got lost in the mail," Kimbley said, folding the paper carefully into halves and then quarters. He then laid it on one palm and pressed the other on top of it, sandwiching the sheet between his tattooed hands. "These things happen."

He turned his wrists and pulled his hands apart. For an instant the paper seemed suspended in midair. Then, before it could begin to fall, it exploded in a small burst of flames. Roy's eyes widened, and he almost cried out in amazement at the show of alchemical prowess before he realized what Kimbley had just said.

"But if you knew there was a letter you must have... I mean, it won't be a problem, will it? I've been waiting for years to write the—"

"The papers from the Academy say you're mine until the twenty-first of May, little baby soldier," Kimbley said with obvious relish. "I have no intention of releasing you from your duties, State Alchemist exam or no."

He got to his feet, smoothing the front of his uniform. "Back to work, now, Cadet," he said. "Unless I'm much mistake, you're half a day behind."

Roy looked down at the ashes of his morning's work. When he raised his head again, Major Kimbley was gone, and Mr. Lane was regarding him regretfully.

"I'm sorry, lad," he said quietly.

"For what?" Roy choked out. "He'll let me go. He has to."

"Aye," muttered the aging geologist. "And he had to let _her_ go, too. But he didn't."

Roy was too distracted to wonder at that assertion. He had bigger problems: Kimbley _had _to let him leave early. Otherwise he wouldn't reach Central in time to write the exam, and he wouldn't be a State Alchemist, and it would be another three years before he could raise the money to retake the test, and Riza would be so disappointed...

_discidium_

His prior encounters with his preceptor should have taught Roy that he was better off as far from Major Kimbley as was quite feasible. But however he derided the insatiable curiosity of his best friend, there was one department in which he was even more pathologically inquisitive than Maes: alchemy. After hearing the rumours of Kimbley's circus career, and seeing the brief demonstration of the alchemist's abilities, Roy was dying to see what else the man could do with those two exquisitely simple arrays on his hands.

So, three days after the incident with the log papers, Roy filled his canteen, snagged a pair of field glasses from the surveyors' tent, and set out for the worksite.

The walk took just under two hours, but Roy didn't want to advertise his departure by taking one of the handcarts. He passed the convicts, breaking gravel with heavy mallets, and he passed the engineers overseeing the laying of the latest section of the track. Neither group seemed to notice him, pass as he did some three hundred yards east of the track, and at last he reached the foot of the cliff face through which the State Alchemist was carving a tunnel.

There was a surveyor present with a team of three men waiting to shore up the new workings, and a sergeant with a rifle under whose watchful eyes a group of four convicts cleared away the rocks of prior blasts, loading them onto a cart to be hauled back to their compatriots on the chain gang. Roy approached, reaching out to lend his shoulder to a bearded man hefting a particularly large stone onto the pile.

"Thanks," the con grunted.

"Don't mention it," Roy said, nodding towards the tunnel. "Is he in there?"

"The human detonator? Yeah, he's in there." He wiped the perspiration out of his eyes with the sleeve of his grey pajama-like prison fatigues, and then stumped off to the mouth of the alchemist-made cavern. Roy thought that this was all the information that he was going to get out of the man, but halfway to his target the convict turned. "Kid?" he said, then looked askance at the sergeant, turned away again and started to walk much more slowly, jerking his head to indicate that Mustang should follow him.

"Yes?" Roy said quietly, knowing better than to whisper. He knew the sergeant's type: any hint of a secret would have him breathing down their necks like a totalitarian schoolteacher.

"Keep away from 'im. He's trouble."

Of course, the New Mustang had to smirk. "Trouble is my middle name," he said saucily. Then to prove it, he swaggered forward towards the first of the lanterns hung from rappelling hooks at intervals in the tunnel.

"Hey, you!" The nonchalant move was ruined when the surveyor came trotting after Roy. "You can't go in there without a hat."

He thrust a miner's helmet into Roy's hand, and the young alchemist reluctantly settled it on his close-cropped hair. "Thanks," he said coldly, turning back towards the darkness. This time no one stopped him.

As he walked, his head swept from side to side, taking in the blasting work. It was imprecise, almost impulsive: the rocks neither smoothed nor particularly uniform. It was obviously Kimbley's job to reduce sheer granite to rubble. Someone else would smooth and perfect the tunnel – most likely with picks and chisels, not alchemy. Once again Roy wondered _why_ this was a posting requiring a State Alchemist, when surely a couple of techs with a carload of dynamite could accomplish the same thing. The obvious answer did not even occur to him.

He heard Kimbley before he saw him: the State Alchemist was humming to himself. Roy slowed his approach, hoping to catch sight of his preceptor without being seen himself. As the alchemist's elongated and emaciated shadow appeared, looming up the wall of the cave, Roy ducked behind one of the thick wooden shorings. Like his younger self peeping into his sensei's study unbidden, Roy peered around the wood until he could see Kimbley.

The State Alchemist had shucked his uniform jacket and shirt, and was standing before the rock face in his trousers, combat boots, and undershirt. He paused to consider his approach, and then squatted, rearranging one of the leafy branches settled against the stone. He knelt down and planted both hands against the mass of foliage.

Roy braced himself for the explosion, but it did not come. The transmutation glow was brief, and nothing happened – save that the green leaves seemed to take on a greyish cast. Kimbley clicked his tongue against his teeth, and then rose and turned around. Wary of being seen, Roy shrank against the wall, but the older man had not heard him: his attention was focused on a small wicker cage, in which cowered a bedraggled grandfather badger. Kimbley picked up the cage with one long hand, and with the other he opened its door.

Instantly the captive creature bristled, fur standing on end as it bulked up into a hissing ball. It bared its razor-sharp teeth, prepared to bite its captor if the alchemist moved that threatening, patrician hand any nearer.

"_Cease_!" Kimbley hissed imperiously, a chilling smile tugging at the corners of his thin lips. Roy's jaw went slack as the badger whimpered and shrank away, scrabbling futilely at the wicker bars. Slowly, smoothly, Kimbley reached into the cage and drew the creature out. The badger tried to writhe free, but Kimbley tightened his grip, making a threatening noise deep in his throat. He tossed the cage carelessly against the wall opposite Roy's hiding place, and then gripped the animal with both hands, taking three long strides backwards.

He was nearly parallel to Roy now: one more step and he would be able to see him. The cadet held his breath as Kimbley carefully adjusted his hold on the badger, which had in its terror lost control of its bowels. Then it happened – so quickly that Roy nearly missed it.

The transmutation was blinding in its power. Alchemical energy crackled in the air as the energy radiated through the arrays tattooed to Kimbley's palms. The badger let out a shrill shriek that sounded almost human. And then, as easily as if it were a baseball, the alchemist hurled it at the wall. It bounced off and landed, dazed upon the floor. Disoriented, bewildered and terrified, the badger headed for the nearest cover it could see: the pile of branches. The instant its fur brushed one of the altered leaves, badger, branch and rock face all exploded with sundering force.

The ground rocked. The pilings creaked. A wall of air was forced out by the shock wave, jarring Roy to his bones. He crouched instinctively as rocks rained down around him, only dimly aware that Kimbley had not even flinched: he stood still, eyes closed as if in bliss.

Silence fell. A good eight feet of rock wall had been reduced to rubble that would be cleared away by nightfall. Roy looked warily at the smoking remains of flora and fauna, getting slowly to his feet.

That was when Kimbley turned. His ribs flailed in and out with each rapid breath and his eyes were glazed with exhilaration. "Did you see it?" he gasped victoriously. "Did you see it, little baby alchemist?"

Roy nodded frenetically. He had never seen anything like it. Never. For a moment he felt a wave of guilt for wondering at the wanton destruction of an innocent creature – but look at the result! The transmutation – its precision, its perfection, the careful directing of the explosion... unlike anything Roy had ever seen before.

Kimbley hardly seemed to see him, lost as he was in the afterglow of his transmutation. "Magnificent," he went on breathlessly. The veins in his temples pulsed in triumph. "I never get tired of that: every time is as good as the first."

"Ye—yes—" Roy said, his teeth stammering a little in response to his own rush of adrenaline. "I've never seen... I've never seen _anything..._"

"Of course you haven't!" Kimbley crowed. "But this... forest creatures. Chickens. It isn't the same. It isn't the same as..."

He turned with ominous slowness, and his cold, shining eyes fixed on Roy. Almost vacant with euphoria, they glinted with that madness that Roy had thought he'd glimpsed once before. A wicked grin spread over the alchemist's face, so enormous that his canines shone in the lamplight and Roy could see back to the second molars. "It isn't the same..."

Roy's every instinct cried out for flight. He tried to turn as nonchalantly as he could, intending to bolt up the tunnel towards sunlight and other humans – _sane_ humans – but Kimbley was too quick. A long hand closed on the cadet's wrist, twisting it up into the middle of his back while the other arm wrapped around his throat, pulling him backward against Kimbley's wiry frame. The hand spread itself and planted its palm on Mustang's cheek.

"I could, you know," Kimbley hissed. His chest was heaving with anticipatory. "You're not supposed to be in here. Caught in the blast – a miscalculation on my part. After all, the alchemist can't be held responsible for every idiot who wanders into his transmutation – careless, careless cadet... easiest thing in the world..."

Roy closed his eyes, trying to keep his heart from pounding out its betrayal of his fear. He didn't dare to move, and with the sinewy arm crushing his larynx he could neither speak nor cry out. He could feel the alchemist's hot, predatorial breath on his neck.

"Easiest thing in the world..." Kimbley breathed. His exhalations were slowing. He was coming down from his elation and, Roy prayed silently, recovering his sanity.

What he was still too naive to realize was that Zolf J. Kimbley had no sanity to recover. There was only the thin veneer, the facade that made him a socially acceptable monster. It was _that_ which he was now recovering as he talked himself down.

"But there's plenty of time for that. Lives worth less than yours that'll be ripe for the taking. Another year, perhaps. Eighteen months. Soon. So very soon." The hand on Roy's wrist released, and his arm sprung back to the configuration nature intended. The free fingers crept up his ribs to the buttons on his jacket. "Of course, I need _some_ release for my natural... exuberance."

As agile as a cat, he moved in front of the cadet, shoving Roy backwards against the rock wall. The young man kept his eyes screwed tightly shut, not trusting them to keep his secrets. It had been a long time since Roy Mustang had felt so alone – so frightened and powerless. The hands closed on his head, one over each ear.

"Of course, I can still do it," Kimbley promised. "Not even the delay it would take to draw a circle. Something you need to learn if you want to become a State Alchemist, young one. _Be prepared_. Understood?"

A convulsive shudder ran down Mustang's spine. "Yes, sir," he said, as quietly as he could. The lack of volume kept his voice from trembling. "Be prepared."

It was useless to struggle, it made everything worse, but the New Mustang was stubborn. It was the first time he locked horns with Kimbley, but even then Roy knew, with a tiny pang of despair, that it would not be the last.


	27. When the Game's Been Fought

Note: Excerpt from David Copperfield (c) Charles Dickens.

**Chapter 27: When the Game's Been Fought**

Springtime in East City was the season of mud. Less than two hundred miles from the desert, the frontier metropolis was nonetheless plagued by torrential rains that left its half-paved streets and narrow alleyways a quagmire of pits and puddles. The Eastern Academy cadets paraded in the mud, slogged through mud-choked obstacle courses, and did their daily calisthenics in the mud. They spent their evenings scraping mud off of their boots and soaking mud stains out of their uniform trousers. On Saturdays they scrubbed mud off of the barracks floors.

So of course, it was through the mud that Riza waded when the office messenger pulled her out of Tactics to greet a visitor at the gate. Riza hurried across the campus as quickly as the poor terrain allowed. She could only think of one person who would have any cause to visit her, or to think of her, or to care if she lived or died.

But it was not Mr. Mustang leaning against the wall in the lee of the watchmens' shed, chatting affably with the second-years on duty. It was Gareth Hughes.

The moment she recognized him, Riza quickened her pace to a trot, mindful of splashing her uniform with mud even as she started to panic. There was only one reason that she could think of for Gareth to leave what was left of the Hughes household to come here. There was only one piece of news that he could possibly be bringing to her – a piece of news she had been dreading since the age of nine or ten. Benjamin Hughes, the silent, damaged, solitary man who had helped her through some of the most difficult times in her childhood, was dead.

Gareth's smile faltered as he caught sight of her. Riza wanted to cry out, and bury her head against the glover's chest, and weep, but she couldn't. The other two cadets were watching, and she couldn't lose control in front of them. She squared her shoulders, glad of the now-familiar weight of her uniform upon them, reminding her of what she was and what she wished to become.

"Mr. Hughes..." she said quietly.

"Riza! Hey..." The smile returned to Gareth's lips, but there was sorrow in his eyes as he took in her trim young frame in its smoky blue shell.

Riza drew in a slow breath through her nose. "Is he... how did he..." She couldn't say it.

Gareth looked perplexed. "Didn't you get my letter?" he asked. "I wrote two weeks ago."

"No," Riza said, fighting the urge to break down. The eyes of the other two cadets seemed to be boring into her. "No, I didn't."

"Damn the post!" the man exclaimed. "It's the rebellion: it's slowed amenities to a crawl. It took two days to get here by rail: every forty miles we had to stop to let another military supply train through."

Riza couldn't bear it any longer. "Mr. Hughes, could we please... please..." She gestured vaguely across the yard. "Let's walk, please."

"If I'm allowed to," Gareth said, lolling his eye at one of the second-years.

"You're allowed to," Riza said firmly. She was not at all certain that this was the case, but she had to get away from the audience, and she knew for a fact that she was not allowed to leave the grounds without express permission. She backed away from the gate and strode quickly in the direction of the shower bunker, which would shield them from the view of the gate, of the faculty building, and of the lecture halls at once. Gareth followed her.

"I don't know if you've got any free time," he said; "but we thought, if you wanted to..."

"I'm—I'm sure I could put in for some bereavement leave," Riza mumbled frenetically, her thoughts tripping over one another. "I know he wasn't... we weren't... we weren't family, but there must be s-some regulation that allows for-f-for..."

"Hold on!" Gareth seized her by the shoulders and turned her around, staring intently down into her carmine eyes. "Riza, what are you talking about?"

"Ben." Somehow she managed to choke out the syllable. "He's..."

"No." Gareth shook his head. "No, he's not. He wanted to see you, and... and Dad and I agreed the change would do him good. He's back at the hotel: I would've brought him with me but I didn't want to risk him taking a chill, and anyway I didn't know if they'd let you out to see me. Riza, Ben's okay. He's not... not..." Even he could not bring himself to say it. "He's _not_."

Riza felt her knees going weak, but she stubbornly refused to succumb to the debilitating waves of relief that washed over her. "I'm glad," she exhaled, closing her eyes and nodding her head coolly. "I'm very, very glad. I... tomorrow night is my furlough, I'd be able to come out to see him then. I... it's lovely of you to come to visit."

Gareth released his grip on her arms and patted the side of her face fondly. "Sure," he said, accepting her restrain with his usual grace and understanding. "Sure. I'll come by and pick you up... when?"

"Eighteen hundred hours," Riza said. "I'd... I'm so glad..."

The glover chuckled softly. "Yeah, me too."

_discidium_

Master Sergeant Rosenflower looked up from his book and quirked an eyebrow. "Got a date, Hawkeye?" he asked.

Riza flushed, tugging at the hem of her jacket. "No, sir," she said. "Not exactly, sir."

"Family in town?"

"No... not family, sir." The civilian clothes felt so strange: she hadn't worn them since September. Around her the other girls were decking themselves out in their customary Tuesday night frocks, but usually Riza wore her uniform on the weekly evening off. _Usually_ she didn't even leave the compound. There was always some class to study for, or some project to work on, or when all else failed, the obstacle course to run in the dark.

"Well, enjoy it," Rosenflower grunted. "And remember. If any of these eastern hoodlums give you trouble..."

"Yes, sir. Left to the jaw, right to the groin," Riza recited, recalling the advice that the barracks commander had offered his charges on their first night out.

"Right. Never forget, cadets: men have a weakness you can only try to imagine. Now get out of my hair and–"

"Have fun, sir," the girls chorused amid the occasional giggle. Despite his caustic nature and the occasional inappropriate comment, Rosenflower was well liked all around.

"Where _are_ you going, Riza?" Stephanie Isaac asked as the girls left the barracks and made for the gate.

"_Have_ you got a date? You can trust us!" added Lucy, coming up on Riza's other side.

"It's nothing," the younger girl assured them. "It's just..."

But they were at the gate now, and there stood Gareth Hughes, cap in hand. "Hey, Riza," he said, offering his arm politely. Riza didn't quite feel comfortable enough to take it.

Lucy and Stephanie exchanged a look of clarity. "Hello, Mr. Hawkeye," said Steph. "It's nice to meet you: Riza never talks about her parents."

"Oh, he's not—" Riza began.

"I'm most _certainly_ not!" Gareth added vehemently. "Gareth Hughes at your service, ladies. I'm a family friend."

"Yes," Riza said. "A family friend."

"Sure," said Lucy. "Well, uh... nice to meet you..."

Neither girl seemed to know what to do with Riza's "family friend". As another clutch of cadets came past, Lucy and Steph vanished into the crowd.

"That was awkward," Gareth said good-naturedly. "Look, I didn't mean that your old man wasn't..."

Riza shook her head. "It's all right," she said pertly. "He wasn't. Can we please... I mean, I need to be back for curfew at twenty-three-hundred hours."

"Sure thing," said the glover. "It's not more than a mile and a half, but we could take the trolley if you wanted."

"I'd rather walk it, thank you," Riza said.

"You're a girl after my own heart," Gareth told her.

They passed the rest of the walk in silence, but at last they reached the Telegraph Hotel near East City Station. In a small room on the third floor, Benjamin Hughes was waiting.

He was settled in a shabby armchair next to the radiator, swathed in the quilt from the bed. On his lap lay a neglected piece of whittling – it looked like the early shaping of a duck. His head was resting on one bony shoulder, and Riza thought that he was asleep. But as Gareth closed the door, Ben snorted softly and raised his head.

"Riza," he said hoarsely. Then a smile creased his sad, grey face and he sat up a little straighter. "It's so good to see you."

Military dignity forgotten, Riza rushed forward, bending to embrace her friend. "Ben!" she said, feeling once again like a small child greeting the tinkers as they came back to town. "I'm so glad..."

She caught herself just in time. Ben didn't need to know that she had taken him for dead.

"I just—" He was cut off by a wet, gurgling cough. Quick as lightning Gareth whipped out a handkerchief and thrust it into his brother's hand. Ben held it to his mouth as he choked up a string of phlegm. Wiping his lips, he averted his eyes away from Riza.

"Bless you," she said, not sure how else to respond.

"It's nothing," Ben muttered. Behind him, Gareth cast Riza a dubious look. "You... you've joined the military."

The next-to-youngest of the Hughes brothers had been killed in action on the Aerugan front, around the same time that Riza's father had died. As close-knit as the family of itinerant tradesmen had been, Riza could only imagine what that loss had done to Ben – particularly given his history with Ira. She shook her head.

"I'm at the Academy," she said. "I won't be a soldier for a long time yet: more than three years. By then the war will be over. Anyway they don't like having women on the front. I'll probably end up in an office somewhere, reviewing curriculum changes or designing traffic signs." Not if she had anything to say about it. She would go wherever Mr. Mustang went: into the field, to battle, straight to hell if she had to. But Ben didn't need to know that.

She was glad of the fib, for her friend ventured a small smile. "Never thought of that," he said.

Gareth made a choking sound: he knew she was lying. Gareth had a sixth sense about that kind of thing. Their mother had died when Mr. Mustang's friend the youngest Hughes was borne, and it was Gareth who had taken on the role of matriarch for the family. Riza remembered a deeply mortifying day when she had come to the tinkers' camp thinking that she was about to die, only to learn from Gareth just what the unexpected bleeding meant. He was younger than Ben, but he looked after him, and before the family had broken up – Ira and Maes to the military, the third son Eli to government contracts in the glassgrinding industry – Gareth had looked after all of the others as well. Ben was Riza's dear friend, but Gareth was one of the few responsible adults who had helped her through her childhood.

"I'm taking classes at the university, too," Riza said, knowing that that news would please both men.

Ben shook his head wonderingly. "I always knew you'd do something like that," he said. "You're the cleverest person I know."

Riza flushed a little at the compliment. "It's really wonderful," she said; "because it's part of my training, so the military pays for it. I'd never be able to afford it otherwise."

"I wondered..." Ben said. He reached beneath the blanket and drew out a book that had been sitting on his lap. "I wondered if maybe... just like old times..."

"I'd love to," Riza said earnestly. She had fond memories of reading aloud to her friend: at a time when she was sequestered at home with a father whose idea of education was to thrust a stack of books into her hands and bid her read them, it had been cruicially important to have someone to take an interest in her efforts.

"I'll go and scare up some supper," Gareth said softly, skirting around the reunited companions and making for the door.

Riza opened the book. She could tell that the illiterate woodsman had chosen it himself: there were beautiful plate illustrations that he could enjoy on his own, even when there was no one to read to him.

"_Chapter One: I Am Born_," Riza began. "_To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I record that I was born..._"

_discidium_

Later that evening, when supper was finished and Ben had drifted off to sleep, Gareth filled Riza in on the doings of the Hughes family since he had last written.

Absalom, the patriarch of the clan, was eking out a living in South City, but with the uncertainty and volatility of the south-eastern region near the Ishbal border, he had not been on the road for the better part of two years. This was hard on Ben, who was ill-suited to city life, but with the political situation being what it was there was no sense in taking unnecessary risks.

Gareth himself was busy: there was a good deal of work for a man of his skill, since most of the tailors, haberdashers and glovers in Southern were occupied in the war effort – but the shops still had their civilian clientele. It wasn't the kind of detailed custom work that Gare really enjoyed, but it brought in a steady income, and with the tinkering business being so slow, the family needed the money. Gareth was beginning to toy with the idea of setting up a shop – but of course, he added, Ben needed him far too much to allow time for something like that.

Eli the glassgrinder, whom Riza remembered as a notorious rake, was constantly busy with government contracts for safety goggles and rifle sights. He had once been an itinerant optician, travelling with his family and providing eyeglasses to the rural communities. Riza couldn't help but wonder what the farmers and villagers were doing without him, and it saddened her to think that the war effort was depriving Amestrian citizens of such an essential service.

Eli still found ample time for his love life, Gareth started to say before he remembered to whom he was speaking and curtailed his story.

Tiath, who with Ira's death was the last of the Brothers Hughes still living nearby, had taken a job with a photography firm, and was learning how to use a camera. Just as well, said Gareth, for he had never shown much promise as a tinker.

Mr. Mustang's friend Maes was in West City living the life of a junior officer. He didn't write home as often as Gareth wanted him to.

As he walked Riza back to the Academy, Gareth confided in her the details he had not wanted to utter within earshot of Ben, no matter how deeply he appeared to be sleeping.

"He's not well," Gareth said grimly. "That damned chest of his – the doctor in South City blames the liquor, but I don't know. I think..."

He sighed heavily, and for a minute they walked in silence.

"Is it about your mother?" Riza asked. She knew very little about the matter, but she had a nightmarish memory of her dear friend, drunk and brandishing a hunting knife while he screamed that he had murdered her.

Gareth's shoulders slumped. "You know about that," he whispered.

"I... I know that he... something about saving your little brother?"

A nod. "Maes was breach. Mam was haemorrhaging so badly, and we thought she was dead. Ben cut her open and pulled out Maes. They both would've died if he hadn't done it. They both would have died..."

Riza swallowed hard. "He had to do it," she said softly. "He had no choice."

"I know," Gareth breathed. "But there's something else... Riza, can you keep a secret? You're his friend, you need to understand, but Ben doesn't know that I know, and if it ever got back to Maes it would kill him."

Gareth, who listened so patiently to everyone else's problems and bore everyone else's burdens had never had anyone to help him shoulder his own. Riza nodded sombrely. "Of course I can," she said. "I'll never tell anyone."

"She wasn't dead when he did it. She still had a pulse: he found it in her leg. Ben cut her open while... while she was still alive."

For a moment neither walker seemed to breathe. "How did – how did you find out?" Riza asked at last.

"Ben... when he's drunk... he doesn't always remember what he says," Gareth replied. "The first time he told me, Maes was still in diapers. I had to go and bring him back to camp – Da had the little ones to take care of..." He shuddered violently.

Riza had always assumed that Ben's decline, his slow descent into misery and darkness, had begun around the time when she was eight or nine. It had never occurred to her that the two brothers had been wrestling with this demon for two dozen years.

"I'm sorry..." she said, but it was wholly inadequate.

Gareth shook his head. "It's terrible to say," he murmured, staring vacantly down the dark road ahead; "but... one day, soon, Ben is going to die. And it'll be kinder. He'll be happier. He's wanted this... for a long, long time."

Riza didn't know what to say. There was nothing that she _could_ say. She slipped her small hand into Gareth's strong, calloused one, and squeezed consolingly.

_discidium_

The Hughes brothers stayed until Saturday, when Riza once again had a chance to leave the grounds and visit them. On Sunday they departed, Gareth promising to write. Riza returned to the campus alone, and life resumed as usual. There was a little teasing about her "older gentleman", but her lack of response quickly put the other girls off of the scent.

In the third week in May, Lucy Bacall snuck out of an especially boring lecture on the life and times of Fuhrer McFarland to find Riza Hawkeye on the landing below the hall. This fell into the category of Absolutely Bizarre, because Hawkeye _never_ cut classes. Lucy approached as quietly as combat boots allowed. The younger girl stood with her back to the stairs, staring vacantly out of the window at the empty parade grounds where a cast-off newspaper danced in the wind, tumbling over the ridges of dried earth that had not very long ago been a quagmire of mud. In one small hand, she held a letter as if it were made of finest Xingese china.

"Riza?" Lucy said quietly. It was unusual for Bacall to be quiet under any circumstances, but the other cadet seemed to radiate an aura that precluded anything but the utmost sobriety. "What's wrong?"

Hawkeye turned to look over her shoulder. The extraordinary carmine eyes were shining with unshed tears, suddenly tempered with a new wisdom beyond even Hawkeye's wonted introspection.

"Nothing," she answered, so softly that Lucy could scarcely make out the words. "Nothing at all. An old friend... finally found his peace."

Then she walked away, her pristinely polished boots clicking softly on the stairs below.


	28. Heart of Darkness

**Chapter 28: Heart of Darkness**

"Are you all right, lad?"

Roy looked up from the lichen sample at which he had been staring for the last few minutes. He was startled to discover that Alexander Lane, the elderly geologist who was one of the only – no, _the_ only – person on the site who had the courage to stand up to Major Kimbley.

"Just fine," he said, curling his lips into a broad grin. "Though I admit that the dearth of women—"

Lane chuckled ruefully. "You can't fool me, you know," he said in a stage whisper. "You're all bluster and bravado in that department. But that's all right." His voice normalized and he bumped his knuckles affably against Roy's upper arm. "It's an important part of the game at your age. I remember." He ran a nostalgic hand through his wiry slate-coloured curls.

Roy was unsure how he was expected to reply, so he smirked. "I dunno if you were ever my age," he said with good-natured scepticism.

"Not the age you were when you arrived here, maybe," said Lane obliquely. There was a beat of silence. "Why don't you say what's on your mind? Sometimes it helps to talk it out."

There was only one thing on Roy Mustang's mind, and since the encounter with Kimbley at the blast site, that was exactly how he had been careful to keep it. It was a big enough problem on its own anyway.

"My practicum was supposed to terminate two days early," he said, closing his eyes and leaning back so that the front legs of his chair tipped up off the ground. It was his intention to make it look like he was more annoyed than frantic, and he brought it off very well.

"I know," said the older man. In the wake of the last few days, Roy had almost forgotten that the elderly geologist had witnessed that exchange. "You want to sit the State Alchemist exam."

"_No._" The chair snapped sharply down to earth. "No, I _have _to!"

Lane jumped a little at the suddenness of the outburst, but he recovered very quickly. "Come on, my boy," he reasoned. "There's always next year."

Roy shook his head. "I'll never raise the money in time," he said. "It took me almost five years to get the fee together for this one. But it's not just that. I'm not the only one with a vested interest in the results of the exam."

"Ah." The geologist nodded sagely. "A word of advice. Don't worry about disappointing your parents. They're far more interested in your contentment than they'll ever be in your success. Too many young people destroy themselves trying to live up to imaginary expectations."

"It's not like that," Roy protested softly.

"I know, I know: _your_ parents are different."

Roy curled his lip. "Sure," he said dryly. "Except it's not like _that_, either."

Lane chuckled appreciatively, and drew a little steel flask from his pocket. He unscrewed the cap and offered it to Roy. The cadet hesitated for a moment, but then took the vessel and kicked back a mouthful of the fluid within. It was whiskey, quite high-quality stuff. It warmed his gullet and did a great deal to bolster his spirits. For the first time since... since his preceptor had threatened him with death, he felt like his new self again. He grinned at the elderly scientist. "Cheers," he said appreciatively.

"Don't mention it." Lane took the flask and savoured a swallow. "Let's just keep it our little secret, eh?" Roy nodded his assent. "And as for the exam... if it's so important, why don't you just go?"

"I can't: the Major would never allow it," Roy said. "My only hope is to stay in his good graces and hope that—"

Lane clicked his tongue. "He hasn't got good graces. You ought to have that figured out by now."

He knew, Roy realized with a grinding dread. Alexander Lane knew that Kimbley was... mad? Crazed? Those words weren't quite right, because of course the man _was_ a State Alchemist, and had obviously met all the psychological criteria. Wicked, then? Or just... different?

Roy wasn't sure. Maybe it was all in his head. Part of him hoped so.

"He has to change his mind," he said resolutely. "I have special permission."

"Aye, you do, but you might have noticed that he doesn't have much regard for the higher-ups," Lane said. "I wouldn't be surprised if he withheld permission just to torment you."

He held out the flask again, and Roy, whose hands wanted very much to tremble, accepted it gladly. It was a good minute before he trusted himself to speak.

"I'm trapped, then," he said quietly.

"Of course, there's another option," Lane said. "You _could_ just go."

"Without permission?" Roy gawked. Kimbley wasn't _normal_, but he was still a major, and therefore a senior officer and Roy's immediate superior. Three years at the Academy had instilled the young alchemist with an ironclad sense of duty to those above him. To leave without permission, to disobey a direct order, to abscond like a... like a _deserter_... it was unthinkable.

"You have permission," the scientist pointed out. "From that Lieutenant Colonel of yours. He'll be expecting you back in Central. So go."

It made sense. Put that way, it almost sounded congruous, appropriate. A cadet's first duty was, after all, to his instructors, and from a purely utilitarian standpoint, Mustang would be more useful to the country if he were a fully-licensed State Alchemist. There was just one problem.

"I can't." Roy grimaced. This made a grand total of three ways in which he was terrified of Kimbley, and he resented that. With fear came powerlessness, and he hated to feel powerless. He wanted so much to be in control of his own life and destiny, but he really wasn't having much luck. "If I do, then the Major will give me a poor report, and I might even fail the rotation. Then I'd wash out of the Academy and my career would be over."

"You're right," Lane said. "I'm sorry, that was my mistake. Naturally after you pass your State Alchemist exam and get your licence, you'll go on to become the first major in the history of Amestris to enrol as a fourth-year cadet at the National Academy."

He corked his flask, pocketed it, and strode away with his peculiar arthritic gait.

_discidium_

Indistinct raised voices could be heard from the mess tables. No words could be discerned, but there was not a man present who did not know who was shouting. They all seemed to think it was hilarious. Roy disagreed, but he said nothing. He sat in silence, eating methodically while the banter roiled around him.

"Knew she was a shrew," said Sergeant Daniel Clemens. "No tits. Women always compensate with obnoxious personalities."

"I beg to differ," argued the quartermaster. "It's not the tits, it's the uniform. I've never met a girl yet who the military didn't spoil."

"You haven't met a girl yet, full stop!" chortled McClelland. "Anyway, if you ask me, he's giving her the push and she doesn't like it."

"She's a fool if she thinks he loves her," commented a reedy-looking corporal. "He's never loved anybody but himself."

"Hasn't got a heart to love with."

"He blew it up long ago!"

"I'm serious," the corporal said. "He's in love with himself. That's why he likes shacking up with her: it's the next best thing to sleeping with himself."

Roy wasn't feeling very hungry anymore, but he kept his fork moving. He didn't understand the need that these men felt to discuss the... _relationship_ between the two senior officers. He certainly couldn't bear to think about it, and he wished he didn't have to hear it, either. For the first time in his life, he thought inanely, he understood how Maes Hughes felt about hearing the details of his brother's escapades.

God, he wished Maes were here. Maes had a knack for making the ugliest situations more bearable.

"I heard he's bored of her," said Nisbitt. "He's been trying... different things. Different... p-positions and things..."

"She's on the back burner, all right. Not good enough anymore."

"Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned..."

"If she had any sense, she'd run in the other direction. He's probably waiting for the perfect opportunity to blow her sky-high."

"Aw, c'mon. He's a State Alchemist."

"He's a sick, creepy bastard."

"He blows up chickens!"

The tent on the far end of the encampment now stood silent. Bathory was obviously finished saying her piece – or she had been cut off by an advance by those long, deadly hands, Roy thought bleakly. It was an effective threat, especially if she had ever seen her lover at work.

He closed his eyes, involuntarily reliving the explosion he had witnessed. From a purely alchemical standpoint, it was one of the most impressive things he had ever seen. But in retrospect, he understood how the poor old badger had felt: terrified, cornered, powerless to stop its life from collapsing in ruins.

He understood, but _he_ wasn't a woodland creature. He was Roy Mustang, Cadet Second Class. He was Roy Mustang, pupil of Mordred Hawkeye. Roy Mustang, sole practitioner of flame alchemy. He was Roy Mustang, and no matter what happened, no matter what was done to him, no matter what nightmares visited him in the dead hours before dawn, he could take control of his life. He could and he would.

He wasn't like these other saps, trapped here by duty or fear or a morbid curiosity. He had seen all he wanted to of the Crimson Lotus Alchemist. He had experienced all he could bear of life under the command of Zolf J. Kimbley. He had learned little about alchemy, but more about himself. And he'd had a placement experience that he was willing to bet most of his classmates could never imagine, but he was finished with it. He had to get the hell out of here.

_discidium_

There was a florid bruise on Captain Bathory's left cheekbone. All day she had been storming around the encampment, vengeance incarnate, swooping down upon anyone who strayed into her path. From his vantage point under the canvas pavilion, Roy had seen her chewing out corporals, bullying convicts, and even tearing a strip off of elderly Alexander Lane for absent-mindedly leaving his shirt untucked.

She was not at all her usual military self. Her hair was uncombed, pulled untidily back from her face with a length of twine. Her boots had not been polished the previous evening, and there was a smear of blood on one of her jacket buttons. It was the sudden abandonment of decorum and protocol that upset Roy, more so than her sudden wroth or last night's telltale noises. He understood firsthand how important the military niceties were, and he could not help thinking that they were the last thing to go before one lost one's grip on reality entirely.

He cornered her behind the payroll bunker, whence she had gone to wash her hands once again.

"Captain?" Mustang said quietly.

She startled, spinning around and pressing her back against the rough wall, her hands dripping into the dust. "_You_..." she exhaled harshly. "What the hell do you want?"

Her hands were chapped from over-scrubbing, and the skin on her knuckles was cracked, dried-out fissures oozing tiny black trails of blood.

"Are you all right, sir?" Roy asked. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Help? _Help_? Haven't you done enough damage?" She looked half-crazed. "Everything was fine, _fine_, before you came. You've... he wants to... he wants..."

She flexed her sore fingers impotently, unable to articulate what it was that "he" wanted. Roy understood: the jerky motions were a clumsy parody of the way that Major Kimbley moved his hands when he was pondering the pleasure of detonation something. Someone.

"He's threatened you, hasn't he?" he asked, trying to sound empathetic. Empathy wasn't his strong suit, but in this case he wasn't having any trouble at all putting himself into Bathory's position, unfortunately. "He's threatened to use you as..." He tried to grope for a less barbaric word than the ones that sprung immediately to mind. "... material."

She might have been trying to nod, but it came off as paranoid, spastic jerking of her neck and chin. "I could stand the rest of it." She forced out a hoarse stage whisper, her eyes vacant and haunted. "Never satisfied, wanting more, wanting to recapture – something... and the perversions, I could put up with that, but I'm not going to let him... I can't let him..."

Again her fingers twitched and flexed. For a moment, Roy could almost see the dark transmutation circles tattooed onto _her_ long, thin palms. No wonder the NCOs made cracks about the Major sleeping with himself.

Bathory fixed her eyes upon Roy's face, pale orbs wide and wet with despair. "He says if I love him I'll d—do it..."

"You can't seriously mean that you love him!" Roy scoffed, the words bursting out before he could censor them. "He's not... normal," he ended lamely. "S-sir."

The honorific seemed to have an effect on Bathory. She stiffened. Then her fingers tugged at her rumpled jacket. "Dismissed, Cadet!" she snapped. "Get back to work, or I'll put you on latrine duty."

_discidium_

There was no point in applying himself to his assigned work: Kimbley didn't give a flying damn whether it was finished or not, and it had no value to anyone else on the project. Captain Bathory had not been herself for the better part of a week, and she was no longer even checking up on Roy. She hardly seemed able to look at him.

So Mustang brushed off the analyses and the cataloguing, and applied himself to a much more important task. He studied.

He had brought several of his more advanced alchemical texts with him for just this purpose, and though for a while he had lost sight of that goal in an effort to deport himself well in his practicum, now he revised with great vigour. He wasn't worried about the practical portion of the test: he knew that he would give them a display they would not soon to forget. The psychological test would be a breeze: if _Kimbley_ could pass it, then anyone could. But he was terrified of the written portion.

He read. He memorized. He covered reams of paper with clumsy copywork, training his hands to spell the names of the elements correctly, even if he didn't hold out much hope for teaching his brain. He composed functional though certainly not lyrical essay responses. He must have re-written the practice exam fifteen times.

The days were slipping by. May fifteen was gone. May sixteenth.

Then on May seventeenth, two days before Roy was supposed to return to Central and four days before the official end of his internship, the accident happened.

_discidium_

It was after sundown, and the men were gathered around their campfires, swapping service stories and lewd limericks. A typical night, in all, and Roy was forcing himself to enjoy it. The desperate need to fit in had haunted him since childhood, but these days, even given the underlying circumstances that were making this a very uncomfortable assignment, the act of blending with those around him was almost natural. Almost, because he didn't take quite the same simple pleasure that the others did in these soldierly rituals. It was fun, but he always felt that he had some ulterior motive that the others lacked.

A couple of sergeants, rather tipsy from the contraband beer they were drinking, were reciting a rather raunchy poem entitled, so they claimed, "The Ballad of Mimsey McGee". Roy had never heard it before, but evidently the crowd had: they were warming into the recitation and just starting to join in when the creaking of a handcart interrupted them. Up the rails from the direction of the work-site came Major Kimbley, lazily pumping the handle of the cart. He did not stop it at the edge of the camp where the vehicles were usually left, but pushed onward, letting the cart roll to a stop like a mobile stage, right in front of the gathered soldiers.

"Good evening," he said, smiling enormously. His smooth incisors gleamed red in the firelight, giving him an oddly demoniacal air.

The men weren't sure how to respond: usually the alchemist had few dealings with them. The silence did not please Kimbley: it was plain that he wanted an audience.

"I said _good evening_. Mustang! Where are your manners?"

"Good evening, sir," Roy said. He knew better than to resist, though he still wished he had learned that lesson the easy way.

"Doesn't anybody want to know how my day was?" Kimbley asked. "Come on: are you all too stupid to make small talk or something?"

He was angling for something. Roy had no idea what, but he was very uncomfortable. The rails were just out of the circular glow of the fire, but when he squinted he could make out something at the alchemist's feet: a large, hefty-looking bundle wrapped in oilcloth.

"H-how was your day, sir?" stammered Corporal Nisbitt.

"Very productive, thank you," Kimbley said earnestly. "I blasted another twenty feet of tunnel, and I didn't even break a sweat. Aren't you pleased, Master Sergeant Vernon?"

"Very," the engineer said tersely. He didn't think much of Kimbley or his methods, and Roy suspected that he, too, had often wondered why the hell the military hadn't just sent a demolition crew with a few cases of dynamite.

"Of course, there was a slight... hiccough." Kimbley squatted, hoisting the bundle into his arms and rising slowly back to a standing position.

"I don't know what's wrong with people these days," he said amicably. He clicked his tongue against his teeth. "They seem to ignore the simplest safety measures. They have so little regard for their personal safety. It saddens me, it really does."

"What the hell is this?" Vernon snapped, getting to his feet. Clearly Roy wasn't the only one who sensed that there was something terribly wrong here. "What are you trying to say."

"It's tragic," Kimbley said, but his voice dripped insincerity, and there was an undertone of elated glee. "She wandered into the blast site. By the time I _realized_... it was too late."

He threw down the bundle. As it fell, the weight inside rolled free of the oil cloth. Several of the NCOs screamed as the men scrambled to their feet and away from the cylindrical object that tumbled towards them. It came to a halt just short of the fire, near Roy Mustang's left boot. The cadet stared in consternated disbelief.

It was the charred remains of a human torso, wrapped in what was left of a military jacket. One button clung on by a snag its shank had made in the fire-retardant wool. On it could still be seen a black smear of blood.

_discidium_

At dawn, Master Sergeant Vernon's men were up at the tunnel, trying to work out what had happened. They weren't forensic investigators, of course, and by noon they were back in the camp, unable to refute Major Kimbley's blithe assertion that Captain Bathory had wandered into his work area seconds before the material detonated. There would be an inquest, of course – eventually. It would take time for Investigations to get someone out to the remote encampment. In the meantime, there was nothing to be done.

Roy knew better. Abandoning all reason, he went storming from the pavilion, where the remains of the woman's body were laid out under the same piece of oilcloth in which she had been unceremoniously hauled back to camp, and burst uninvited into the Major's tent.

Kimbley was cleaning his nails with a piece of flint. He looked up in mild surprise.

"It's the little baby alchemist!" he said sweetly. "I knew you couldn't stay away forever: I always leave 'em wanting more."

Roy was too angry even to feel his fear. "You killed her!" he seethed.

"Marissa?" Kimbley clarified. "It certainly looks that way. Though of course, I could hardly be held responsible. Certainly it was my handiwork that was the direct cause of her death, but it's not _my_ fault that she wandered into a restricted area unannounced. Really, you're lucky that the same thing didn't happen to _you_."

"That's a lie," Mustang said, taking two menacing steps forward. "She wasn't killed in the blast, she _was _the blast! You said yourself that you wanted to use something larger. And you told her if she cared about you she'd agree to let you use her!"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Kimbley batted his eyelashes and used his thumb to buff his left ring fingernail.

"You used _her_ as your biological material!"

"That's an interesting hypothesis," Kimbley said. "Unfortunately the post-mortem won't bear you out. That's even assuming the plods from Central get here in time for a proper post-mortem. Bodies decay so very quickly. _The worms crawl in. The worms crawl out. The worms play pinochle on your snout_."

"I'll tell them," Roy said as stoutly as he could, though oddly enough the scrap of doggerel had disarmed him, and he could feel his courage ebbing away. "Between what you said to me, and what Captain Bathory told me—"

Kimbley's mouth curled into an enormous smile. "Your word against mine, Cadet," he sang gleefully. "And who do you _really_ think they'll believe?"

He tossed the bit of flint aside and flexed his hands so that the tattoos on his palms rippled. He sat up, leaning forward as if he were preparing to rise.

Roy didn't wait to see it happen. He retreated from the tent, his thoughts racing and his heart hammering in his chest. He didn't care anymore: his career, his future at the Academy, it wasn't important. And Mr. Lane was right: if he passed the State exam, he wouldn't have to worry about a poor review on his practical rotation. More importantly, he didn't want to die out here, overtaken by a long-fingered madman unstable enough to use his own – moll? Whore? What was the right word? – as blasting fodder.

He crossed the encampment and ducked into his own small tent. Frenetically, he threw himself into the task of packing his kit bag.

_discidium_

When the camp was fast asleep, Roy crept out into the darkness. He glanced over his shoulder towards the large tent at the edge of the compound. Through the canvas, he could see a candle flickering: Kimbley was still awake.

That thought made him move more quickly. He wouldn't have much of a chance to get away. It was six hours 'til dawn. It would be noticed when he did not appear at breakfast. And Master Sergeant Vernon was no slouch: after what happened to Bathory he would be wary of any disappearances. But would they send someone after him? He didn't know. He had to be back in Lesser Marlburg – preferably on a train headed back towards Central – before sunrise.

This meant, of course, that he would have to steal a handcart. He tried to placate his conscience: he wasn't _stealing _it, was he? After all, he wouldn't be removing it from the rails, just riding it back to the last station on the line. Surely that wasn't an offence worthy of a court-martial. He hoped not. Bad enough that he was destroying any chance of a backup plan: by leaving without the permission of his preceptor, he ran a very real risk of expulsion from the Academy. If he failed the State Alchemist exam...

He'd cross that bridge when he came to it. If he didn't get out of here, he probably wouldn't live to sit the exam. While Kimbley was right and the testimony of a disgruntled cadet wouldn't carry much weight with Investigations, it would be so much safer just to do away with him to cover up what had been done to Bathory.

"Going so soon?"

Roy's heart stopped. The voice was coming from behind him, a low whisper tainted with wry amusement.

"You're not meant to leave until the day after tomorrow."

Relief flooded Mustang's body, and suddenly he was trembling. It was only Alexander Lane, the old geologist. He turned, and in the dim light of the moon he could make out the man's wizened features.

"I have to," he hissed. "It wasn't an accident. He killed her, and if I stay here he'll probably kill me, too. I was... he..."

Lane held up his hand, mercifully sparing Mustang from the words he couldn't utter. "Don't say it. Just go. You'll be taking one of the carts?"

Roy nodded. "Come with me," he said hastily. "It's not safe here. He's mad, and they're all mad to look the other way. Can't they see he's lost his mind?"

"Some of them, yes," Lane said. "But what are they supposed to do about it? The man's a State Alchemist. He's a major in the military. They're scared stiff of him and what he stands to do to their careers." He shuffled forward: he was wearing a striped nightgown and blue flannel bedroom slippers. "You go on. I'll be fine."

"But—"

The scientist shook his head. "I can't stand those carts. And anyway, the Major would never kill me. Ester wouldn't stand for it, and there's not a force in nature more fearsome than my wife. Go. Write your exam. And let me tell you, boy, if you don't pass it you had better leave the military and take up sheep farming. Somewhere that man can never find you again."

He didn't need to tell Roy that. The cadet nodded. "Listen, if you could..."

Lane bobbed his head in understanding. "I'll keep Vernon from raising the alarm. Who knows: maybe no one else will even notice you're gone." He reached into the pocket of his nightshirt and drew out the steel flask. "Here, take it with you: you might need something warm inside you. It's a cold night."

Roy tried to thank him, but Lane only urged him to hurry. It was a simple enough matter to get the cart moving. Roy pumped very slowly at first, fearful lest the handle or the wheels should squeak, but the vehicle was well oiled. One mile marker slipped past, then two. His arms were burning and his back ached already, but he was leaving the camp far behind. As the rails rushed beneath him and the stars rolled slowly by overhead, Roy could not help hoping that, pass or fail the State Alchemist exam, he would never see Zolf J. Kimbley again either way.


	29. Panic

Note: "Barnacle Bill the Sailor" (c) Hoagy Carmichael

**Chapter 29: Panic**

The rural trains stopped at every town, hamlet and cowshed in the west, and it took Roy thirty-one hours to get from Lesser Marlburg to Haverton, the second of eight stops on the Express from West City to Central. Only when he was safely aboard, his kit bag stowed in the wire berth above him and his second-class ticked punched by the conductor, did Roy once again allow himself to think.

The floodgates opened, and suddenly he was floundering in the offal of the past weeks. Terror and consternation and a deep, nauseating shame. His spine seemed to lose its cohesion, and he melted backwards into the corner where the bench met the window. The glass was cool, and Roy pressed his forehead against it, staring blankly out at the forest speeding past. He tried desperately to focus, to pull himself together, back into the safe, constrained military shell and the devil-may-care mask that had served him so well in the field.

It was useless. His three years at the Academy had included rigorous training in controlling these emotions. Fear and horror... they could be deadly in a combat situation. If a soldier let himself go to pieces just because he was surrounded by gunfire, or cut off from all support in the midst of no-man's land, or isolated in a remote railroad camp with a depraved, unnatural, murdering alchemist, then he didn't stand a chance. Losing control was an open invitation to death.

So the military employed psychologists to educate its cadets in coping strategies, and set seasoned vets to the task of devising practical exercises in compartmentalization and disassociation. Roy tried futilely to think back to the week of interrogation training. That had not been so very different: to succeed, to survive, he had had to keep back the apprehension, to control the stress and the strain and channel it into something useful. He'd done the same thing with his fear of Kimbley; put it from his mind, refused to allow himself to give in.

But when the training with the Special Ops had ended, it had been over. There had been no baggage, emotional or physical, to carry away. Whereas this... Roy wasn't sure that this would ever be over.

Worse than Kimbley's cruelty was the fact that his behaviour flew in the face of everything Roy believed in. Maes had often teased him about his naivety, and he was right. Roy believed in the military. He believed that it was a force devoted to serving the Amestrian people. And he believed – or he _had_ believed – that its officers and especially its alchemists took that responsibility seriously. He thought about his instructors, about Lieutenant Colonel Brighton and Captain Casperia – and even that arrogant Armstrong woman. He thought about Brigadier General Grumman. _They _were what officers were supposed to be like. Pedantic at times, strict and maybe a little abusive, but dedicated to the uniform and to the nation that they served, and considerate of those under their command. They did not threaten the lives of their subordinates. They did not strike up inappropriate and immoral relationships with them. And they _did not murder them_.

But Kimbley had, and the draught of disillusionment was a bitter one. He had betrayed every principle that the military taught, every principle that Mustang valued and admired. He had threatened at least two subordinates with death, and... and... and... A convulsive shiver coursed through Mustang's body, and he thought what had happened to Bathory. Certainly he had not been particularly fond of her, but he had to some degree empathized with the helplessness and hopelessness of her position, and whatever her personal failings, no one deserved that... to be used as material in a deadly transmutation that served no greater good but only satisfied the bizarre carnal appetites of a demented, twisted...

Pale eyes glinting with madness, and cool, bony palms on either side of his head. Roy could feel the power in those absurdly simple arrays; the power to kill, to destroy, and...

He choked back the bile that was rising in his throat. He hadn't eaten since leaving the camp, and there was nothing within to vomit up, but the urge was still there. Slowly Roy opened his eyes, focusing intently on the trees that whipped past. He tried to count them. One, two, skip a few, ninety-nine, one hundred... They were moving far too swiftly to be counted.

Alchemy was to be used for the good of all. _Alchemists, be thou for the people_. What was the point of practicing alchemy if one kept it locked in a dusty study the way that his sensei had? But how could he aspire to do anything more, when a State Alchemist used his art to arbitrarily execute soldiers under his command?

He didn't have to be like Kimbley. He could be better than that. He could aspire to something more. Without realizing it, Roy straightened his spine, peeling away from the bench as his resolve hardened itself. Of course he could be better than that. Why, there were crazy doctors who killed patients on the operating table, but the vast majority of physicians were caring and altruistic. There were farmers who beat their wives to death, but most men of the land were quiet and peaceable. The same had to be true for other professions, too. The fact that one man with a silver pocketwatch was a perverse and unbalanced lunatic – a murderer – did not taint every alchemist in the State. The others had to be better men than Kimbley.

There was that optimism again, Roy thought wryly. Maes would've made some crack about it if he were here. But he was glad that Maes wasn't here. He would've seen right through all Roy's attempts to equivocate, and there were some things that Maes did not need to know...

Now that he had made up his mind, Roy had work to do. He got to his feet, his legs quivering a little with enervation, and hauled one of his texts out of his kit bag. He sat down again and balanced it across his lap. He would study. If he kept busy, maybe he wouldn't have to think about... He would keep busy. He had two days left before the exam, and he still wasn't confident that his literacy skills were up to the challenge.

The train rattled inexorably towards Central.

_discidium_

Roy needed a quiet place to study, and hopefully sleep a little. He could not return to the Academy: he was not expected for another twenty-four hours, and though there was no way that news of his AWOL departure from the rail camp could have reached Central before him, he wasn't going to take any chances. Besides, the last thing he wanted given his current state of mind was to return to his room with Mark Zlotsky, the world's most nepotistic cadet.

The university library was out: for one thing, it was anything but quiet, and for another, anyone caught sleeping there would be tossed unceremoniously into the street. And as much as he wanted to rise above that kind of petty servility to his body's needs, Roy knew that he had to try to sleep. He hadn't had more than the odd catnap on the train, because every time an axel squeaked, or a car door opened, or another passenger sneezed, he found himself jolted awake in a brief instant of panic. There was a word for that, though Cadet Mustang didn't know it: hypervigilance.

He might have had enough money to get a room in a hotel, but Roy couldn't quite justify that. There was a nagging fear that the worst would happen: that he would fail the exam, and be expelled from the Academy for his display of defiance in the rail camp, and find himself at once without prospects, employment or shelter. It was the worst-case scenario, but despite his innate optimism, he could not help but think how well it would fit with is recent streak of fortune.

He had no friends in Central, or at least no friends with the means to harbour an AWOL cadet. But there was one place where he had passed a difficult night under the auspices of an empathetic entrepreneur, and in the numb and bewildered frame of mind in which Roy disembarked at Central Station, it seemed like the most logical place to go.

He had been very drunk when he had been shown the way to the place, and very hung-over when he had found his way away from it, and so it took a while for him to find the building again. It was a storefront with red velvet drapes occluding the window, and a tastefully painted sign declaring it to be _The Purple Myna_, a "private club".

There was a bell hanging from the lintel so that it rang when the door was opened. Roy thought that that had to be a new addition. The room was busier than it had been on his last visit: several girls and their escorts were lounging around the bar and the chaises. Only the bartender looked up as Roy entered.

"Can I..." the cadet began. Then he cleared his throat and forced a lazy grin. "I'm here to see Christabelle," he said smoothly.

Wordlessly, the man jerked a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the arched opening that led to the lounge. Sauntering as best he could with his heavy kit bag over one shoulder, Roy moved into the other room.

There was less activity here: a scantily clad brunette was massaging the shoulders of a reedy-looking man with thick spectacles, and a pair of girls were draped over the top of an ornate upright piano. Before it sat the generously proportioned woman with the over-made face, her silk robe pooling at her feet. She was tickling the ivories with a fair bit of skill, and singing raucously as the girls joined in:

_I'll come down and let you in.  
__I'll come down and let you in.  
__I'll come down and let. You. In.  
__Cried the fair young maiden._

_Well, hurry before I bust in the door!  
__(Barnacle Bill the Sailor!)  
__I'll rare and tear and rant and roar!  
(Barnacle Bill the Sailor!)  
__I'll spin you yarns and tell you lies!  
__I'll drink your wine and eat your pies!  
__I'll kiss your cheeks and black your eyes!  
__(He's Barnacle Bill the Sailor!)_

Then the older lady swung into a raucous ragtime improvisation. The girls exchanged an amused glance and began to clap along. When Christabelle finally concluded with a long chromatic scale, all three women burst into merry laughter.

Roy cleared his throat, and the pianist swivelled on the stool, one hand finding her generous hip. "Well, well," she said wonderingly. "Look what the cat dragged in. What're you doing here, honey? I didn't figure I'd see you back here again, a nice boy like you."

Roy glanced sidelong at the two girls, who were eyeing him like predatory cats. They probably thought he was a client, and that he wanted to...

He shivered a little, and shrugged lazily. "I wondered if I could have a word, ma'am," he said politely.

One of the girls tittered. "_Madame_," she corrected, _sotto voce_. Her colleague giggled.

"Why certainly, hon," Christabelle said, getting to her feet and swaying forward. "You want to do this in private?"

"Yes," Roy said earnestly. The two girls whooped and whistled, but Christabelle ignored them and steered Roy towards the wall and pulled aside another curtain, revealing a narrow back staircase.

Upstairs, a corridor full of doors met Roy's eyes. He felt suddenly very nervous. He had absolutely no proof that he could trust this woman – save that she had refused to take advantage of him when he was drunk and miserable. As she opened the first door on the left, he braced himself, making ready his excuses so that he could beat a swift retreat if she...

It wasn't a bedroom, he realized with a flood of relief. It was a tiny study – and quite an ordinary one, too. There was a plain pine desk equipped with a blotter, an inkwell, a mug full of pencils, and a slide rule. Behind it stood a shelf full of ledgers. A battered sofa occupied most of the right-hand wall. Christabelle draped herself over it, and patted the cushion next to her slippered feet.

Roy hefted his bag off of his shoulder and eased it to the ground. "I was just wondering if..." He gestured futilely. "I need a quiet place to study."

The woman stared at him from beneath garishly painted eyelids. "_Study_?"

"I'm taking a very important exam the day after tomorrow, and I can't go back to the Academy, because – I can't go back to the Academy tonight. I need somewhere quiet where I can practice my..." He flushed a little, but he might as well admit the truth. "My reading."

"Don't take it personally, child, but you look like you need a lot more than that. You look like my late husband. Duong, that is. Not Tom. Or Jack. Listen, the room across the hall is empty. Why don't you go and have a bath, and lie down for a while, and when the house closes I'll fix you some breakfast."

Roy let out a small laugh of disbelief.

"Something wrong?" asked Christabelle.

"I didn't really think you'd agree," he admitted.

She regarded him quizzically. "And yet you came," she said.

_discidium_

Mustang bathed, luxuriating in the hot water that was almost foreign after five weeks of cold showers in the field. He would have scrubbed himself raw, but suddenly he thought of Bathory and her compulsive hand-washing, and he couldn't bear to. Instead he soaked until the water was cold, and then got out and put on his other uniform: the one that he had worn during the journey to Central needed laundering in the worst way. A large four-poster bed occupied most of the small room adjacent to the bath, but Roy couldn't help imagining what it was usually used for. He returned to the little study, wondering if he was turning into a prude.

He decided that he just had better things to do than sleep. The papers from the examination board claimed that spelling and grammar were not graded in the written portion of the exam, but Roy had a sneaking suspicion that if he was spelling the names of common elements incorrectly it would be held against him. He sat down at the desk with his periodic table and a fresh piece of paper. It proved a welcome distraction.

At five o'clock in the morning, Christabelle came upstairs. She had traded in her negligee for a gaudy polka-dot frock and a string of freshwater pearls. She had a pot of coffee in one hand and a plate of sausage and scrambled eggs in the other.

"What's the big test?" she asked, setting the food at Roy's elbow.

The cadet looked up from his copywork. "The State Alchemist exam," he admitted.

She whistled softly. "You don't aim low, do you?" she asked. "How old are you, anyway?"

"Almost twenty," Roy said defensively.

"Hah! You're a year younger than my daughter," Christabelle said.

Roy's eyes widened a little. Somehow he had never thought that prostitutes could have children. "You've got a daughter?"

"Three," said Christabelle proudly. She opened the top drawer of the desk and took out a leather frame. Three girls grinned out at Roy, arms throw affectionately around one another's shoulders. "That's Gloria," she said, pointing to the eldest, who was at least eight years older than her next sister. "Her father was my late husband Jack. And here's Polly. She's Tom's, God rest his soul. And Vanessa."

Roy racked his brain for the name of Christabelle's third husband. "Duong's?" he asked.

"Good lord, no!" Christabelle laughed. "Duong was over the hill long before I caught him. And we were only married eighteen months. No, Vanessa wasn't born in what you might call the bonds of wedlock." She smiled mischievously.

"They're lovely girls," Roy said politely. "Are they..." He looked towards the door.

"No," Christabelle said softly. "I'd never have them live here. They're at finishing school in North City." She shrugged. "Say what you will about the lifestyle: at least it pays well."

"I suppose..." Roy said.

" 'Course, what I'd really like to do is set up on my own. A nice little lounge, maybe a stage. A billiard table, and a bar, of course. And an apartment upstairs. A _private_ apartment." She winked pointedly.

Roy nodded appreciatively. "You never know," he said. "It sounds doable."

She laughed. "Well, you're not the only one with lofty ambitions. When's this exam of yours?"

"Tomorrow," Roy said.

"You'll be staying here 'til then?"

He shook his head. "I'm expected back at the Academy this afternoon," he said. Assuming Kimbley hadn't yet had a chance to rat him out. "Listen, I really appreciate—"

"No problem, honey. Any time. My house is your house. Well, the house I own a quarter share in is your house." She ruffled his hair fondly. "I like you, Roy Mustang. You're a good boy. Now. Eat your breakfast."

_discidium_

When Roy returned to the Academy that afternoon, he did so with bated breath. He checked in, and the sergeant at the desk greeted him amiably. He supped in the mess hall with the other cadets, all of whom were more than happy to see him. There was no summons from the faculty offices waiting in his room, and no one stopped him when he went to have his uniforms cleaned. Evidently Kimbley had not yet filed a report on the cadet who had absconded despite a direct order to stay.

He pressed his shirt, polished the silver on his uniform, and buffed his boots until they gleamed, and studiously ignored his roommate's obnoxious interrogation about his placement. But then, at last, he was out of busywork. He sat down on his narrow bed in the darkened dorm room, and pressed his knees together to keep them from trembling. The physical response came in advance of the thoughts, and Roy tried to brace himself against the onslaught of horror.

It didn't come. The first thought to surface had nothing to do with Kimbley, or Bathory, or the consequences of running away. Roy almost laughed aloud in sheer hysteria: he was quaking with exam nerves. He was sitting the most important test of his life tomorrow, and if he failed then he had jeopardized his career and his future for nothing. It was perfectly natural to be nervous. All around the city, aspiring alchemists were probably going through the exact same throes of anxiety.

Oddly, that thought was comforting. He rolled under his standard-issue blanket and fell into an enervated slumber. He dreamed of base metals and noble gasses.


	30. Dagger of the Mind

**Chapter 30: Dagger of the Mind**

Roy waited breathlessly, his heart beating out a desperate staccato in his chest. He had not slept well at all last night, flopping about like a fish out of water while he relived the exam question by question – and worse, rewrote his answers.

From the expressions of those around him, he was not the only one who had done so. There were ninety-six candidates, and most of them looked half sick with anxiety. To distract himself, Roy studied his fellow candidates. There mean age of the examiners was about forty, and many of them looked as if they had done this before. Roy had noticed that yesterday: they had seemed confident and collected, needing no instructions and anticipating the invigilators' actions. Today, they were the most nervous of the lot. Roy felt a jolt of pity accompanied by a hollow echo of terror as he imagined the next thirty years, attempting the test again and again while his hair grew grey and his spine curled forward under the burden of arthritis, and Riza went on to sculpt a bright and wonderful future in which he could take no part...

He shuddered and resumed his study of the others. There were nine women, none of them especially attractive. Off to one side stood two youngish men in smartly tailored suits. They looked like they spent fifteen thousand _sens_ on a pretty girl and a night on the town. Roy wondered with a pang of jealousy why they were even here.

A great number of the applicants had the lean, genteelly shabby look of underfed academia. They wore tatty suit jackets and mismatched socks, their hair was overgrown and their jaws had only a passing familiarity with a razor. These men roused nostalgic and halfway bitter memories of Hawkeye-sensei in the early years, before grief and his obsession with secrecy had started to corrode his sanity.

Thinking of the good that his sensei could have done with a State Alchemist's licence, Roy felt afresh the terror of failure. Had Hawkeye turned his hand to the service of the people he might have saved soldiers and civilians alike. He might have helped to end the strife with Creda and Aerugo. Most importantly, he would have had a higher purpose to draw him out of his sorrow and despair and his caustic self-absorption.

Failure was unthinkable, but Roy's odds of making it through this process were, at best, one in forty-eight. A wave of cold nausea washed over him.

The door to the Twisted Jade Alchemist's offices opened, and out came a brace of Second Lieutenants. Each carried a sheet of paper and they tacked them to the wall: one on each sied of the door.

"Failing grades on your left," said one of the aides. "Those of you who passed, report to Conference Room D on the third floor fifteen minutes before your scheduled time." He and his compatriot retreated behind the door as the "pass" list was mobbed.

Roy wanted to rush forward with the others, but he was cognizant of the dignity that he owed to his uniform. He hung back, edging around the throng and making his way to the abandoned "fail" list instead. _Logan,_ he read. _Lyle. Mardian. Moore. Mulberry. Murdoch. Northrop..._

His knees turned to jelly. He had not failed the written exam. He was among the lucky third whose stay of execution had been extended to the psychological evaluations.

He stepped back, waiting patiently as the disappointed slunk away. Sixty-five people had been culled out, including one of the well-dressed men whose appearance had so annoyed Roy only minutes before. Now he felt a kind of detached empathy: that could so easily have been him, slinking away and shaking his head in frustration.

Once the crowd had thinned a little, Roy moved up to look for his name on the list of successful examinees. His appointment time was listed as fifteen hundred fifteen hours: he had to be upstairs at three o'clock. It was not yet half-past nine.

With six hours to kill, Mustang found the stairs and descended to the atrium. He walked its perimeter, the motion in his legs draining away some of his tension. He studied the sequential portraits of the Fuhrers of Amestris as he walked. There was a mnemonic rhyme for remembering their names in order, but Roy had not endured enough in school to learn it. He relied instead upon the brass nameplate beneath each of the sixty-three pictures.

Cassius Bismarck was first: Cassius the Conqueror, the lean and hungry-eyed general who had led the revolt that had overthrown the corrupt and chaotic oligarchy, and who had established military rule in Amestris. A little further down was Andrew W. Aubry, famous for the great southern expansion in which his armies had clawed away massive tracts of land from the Aerugans and established South City. Ironically, he had been succeeded with Wilfred Ignatius Briggs, better known for the northern expeditions that he had headed as a brash young major than for any deed done during his tenure of power. Roy couldn't recall the accomplishments of the next several men, though one had the most unattractively bulbous nose he had ever seen. He paused at the portrait of bull-necked Oliver Wendell Armstrong, who had made it a priority to provide funding and patronage for the arts during his time in office. From what Roy had gathered from the complaints of various female students at the University, that funding had been cut drastically in the century since Armstrong's term in office. Mustang didn't care much about the arts either way, but he did wonder if this heavily-moustached, patrician general was some distant ancestor of the draconian Captain Armstrong who had taught him to use a sword.

He continued on, past Lloyd Zephyr, who had held the post of Fuhrer President for only twenty-nine days, from his inauguration to his sudden and mysterious death in the presidential mansion in Central (which set him apart from the other short-reigning Fuhrers who had all been slain in battle). He had been succeeded by Octavian Borden, alias Quicksilver... the only Fuhrer to have begun his career as a State Alchemist.

Roy lingered at that portrait, studying the saturnine face with its remarkably blue eyes. Funny to think that a Fuhrer of Amestris had once stood in Roy's place, anxiously awaiting the next portion of the most important exam of his life. It was an oddly comforting, but also daunting, prospect.

Two portraits down from Borden was the slightly portly Wesley McFarland, last of the past Fuhrers. Roy remembered the day of his death: Hawkeye-sensei had been in the mood to celebrate, and he had done so by doling out brandy to everyone, even eight-year-old Riza.

Last of all hung the painting that was replicated on the current five-_sens_ stamp: King Bradley in full dress, seated with his hands clasped over the hilt of his elegant sabre. There was a hint of a politician's smile on his face, and his lone eye gazed benevolently upon his nation.

For some Roy felt strangely unsettled. Anyhow, he thought dismissively, he couldn't stay here for the next five hours: he'd be arrested for loitering. There were a few important preparations that he had to make before the practical exam tomorrow, and now seemed like the ideal time to make them. Because in spite of his nervousness, he had no doubt at all that he would pass the psychological assessment.

And yet if that were true... why was he so anxious?

_discidium_

Conference Room D had been sectioned in two by curtained screens that looked as if they belonged in a hospital. There was no reason for the division, for only one candidate was admitted at a time, but it did give Roy the vague impression that he was being set up for an ambush, as if someone was going to spring from behind the sterile white barrier and attempt to garrotte him.

He stood at attention next to the single wooden chair set out before the panel's table, using the military trick of scanning the five men before him without moving his eyes. General Haman, the Twisted Jade Alchemist sat in the centre of the table, an impressive figure with his chest full of service ribbons and his gaunt, ascetic face. To his right sat a military doctor wearing a white coat over his uniform, and beyond him sat an enormous, muscular man with a thin black moustache. Though Roy could not place him, he knew he had seen the man before, and felt equally certain that he had a very deep voice. A silver watch-chain was visible at his belt: he was a State Alchemist. At the general's left was a middle-aged major with a thick, greying thatch of hair and very patient eyes. Next to him sat a very bored-looking master sergeant with strawberry-blonde hair.

"Have a seat... Cadet," the large man said, his moustache flapping in a way that might have been ridiculous had his entire demeanour prohibited such a thought. There was just a hint of scorn in his voice as he fixed his eyes on the rank insignia on Roy's epaulettes.

"Thank you, sir," Mustang said crisply. If there was one thing he did well, it was taking orders. He sat, his spine so straight that it made no contact with the back of the chair.

"Mustang, is it?" the Twisted Jade Alchemist said, consulting the papers in front of him.

"Yes, General."

"Well, Mustang, Doctor Krause has a few questions to put to you. Answer as completely as you can, but be brief. Huxley will signal you with a yellow card if you're beginning to ramble. If he shows a red card, you had better shut up. Understood?" Haman said curtly. At his far left, the master sergeant held up the two coloured cards demonstratively.

"Understood, sir." A nasty voice in the back of Mustang's mind hissed that this was _not_ going well. He sounded like one of those wax dolls with the pull-strings in their backs.

The doctor in the white coat fixed Roy with a steely frown. "Do you have any family history of mental abnormalities, emotional disturbances, alcohol dependency, criminal infringements or treason?"

That would be an easy one to fake: obviously they wanted a "no". But the lie died on Roy's tongue. "I don't know," he said instead. "My parents died when I was young, and I don't know anything about my family history."

The physician made some kind of notation, and the general raised one eyebrow. Roy felt his pulse quicken a little. Maybe he should have fibbed... what if they held his ignorance against him? He could have—"

"Do you yourself have any tendencies towards any such behaviour?"

"No," Roy said, this time letting the lie trip smoothly out. Mental abnormalities? Probably not, unless his childhood stupidity counted. Emotional disturbances, yes. He couldn't control his emotions the way that he was supposed to, the way that he was trained to. The last few days had proved that... but he couldn't think about that now. _He couldn't think about that now. _He had to stay focused. Focus. Focus.

"As a child, were you frequently disciplined for fighting with other children?"

"Not frequently," Roy said uneasily. He remembered one particular fight, in which Maes Hughes had done the bulk of the swinging... but the truth of the matter was that he had never had enough contact with other children to get into _frequent_ altercations.

"As a child, did you ever injure, torment or kill small animals?"

"Did I _what_?" Roy choked out before recalling himself. He cleared his throat a little and tried to sit back. The effort failed.

"Snare birds just to tease them, or pull the wings off of flies, or cut up a squirrel," the doctor said. "Did you ever do anything like that?"

"Of course not!" A slightly nervous laugh escaped. What kind of a question was that?

"As a child, were you prone to defying authority? Were you frequently in conflict with parents, teachers, or other adults?"

Roy nodded. "I wasn't... I wasn't always obedient," he admitted. "But my record at the Academy is spotless, and—" He stopped, horrified. His spotless record was about to be besmirched with an unforgivable offence: he had disobeyed a senior officer, and absconded from a practical placement. He would be reprimanded, suspended, perhaps even expelled, and no one would understand that he had had no choice—

Damn it, he couldn't think about that now. The physician was scribbling madly on the paper before him, one eye still scrutinizing his expression. Roy was visited by the horrifying feeling that the man could see right through his forehead into the workings of his brain...

Ridiculous, he told himself. He was just being paranoid. He was thinking too hard about this... but these were not at all the type of questions he had been expecting.

"How would you describe the relationships you had with other children?"

"How would I..." He shook his head blankly. How on earth was he supposed to answer that? "I had a friend," he tried lamely.

"Dominant? Submissive? Equitable? Were you often in charge of the games or activities? Were you bullied? Did other children look up to you?"

"No... a little... yes..." A hot flush was working its way up from Mustang's collar, and he wished that he could slink away with what was left of his dignity. In his discomfiture, he didn't notice the way the physician's mouth twitched as he made another notation.

"Would you care to elaborate?" he asked sweetly.

"I... my best friend and I had an equitable relationship, I guess. I mean, I was younger, and I didn't understand a lot of things at first, so he used to be in charge, but after a couple of summers we just... did things together. And there was a gi—there was a kid who looked up to me, I think. But..." Roy flinched. He didn't sound like his new, confident self at all. For the first time, he wondered if he had left New Mustang behind in the railroad camp. It was a terrifying prospect. "But I admired her – er – them. I admired that person, too."

"Hmm."

The major with the patient eyes cast a sidelong glance past General Haman, pursing his lips at the white-coated doctor. Roy was too distracted to notice. He hadn't really expected them to get into his _head_ like this. He was thinking about things he hadn't considered in years... and he didn't much like it.

"In your adolescence, would you have described yourself as popular? Unpopular? Ordinary?"

What a question... he was _still_ in his adolescence. He was only eighteen. "P-popular," Roy said. "I mean, my classmates like me – the instructors at the Academy – and..." A miraculous thing happened: his left shoulder dropped ever so slightly into a cocky lilt and he smirked. "And I'm _especially_ popular with the ladies," he said suavely.

"With the ladies?" the physician said sharply. "Are you presently involved in a serious romantic relationship of any kind?"

It was just the kind of question that Mustang loved. "Naw, of course not!" he said airily. "When you've got a whole smorgasbord to sample from, why tie yourself down to one dish?"

That would have elicited laughs from his fellow cadets. Here, it wasn't received quite so well: the doctor impassively noted it. Haman closed his eyes to hide the fact that they were rolling. The muscular alchemist's moustache twitched. The middle-aged major frowned ever so slightly. Master Sergeant Huxley, at least, snorted into his hand.

"Are you morally or financially responsible for any vulnerable persons?"

Roy thought of Riza, to whom he stood as legal guardian. Technically, he supposed that made him morally responsible for her to some degree, but by no stretch of the imagination was she a vulnerable person. He shook his head. "No."

The physician exhaled through his nose and sat back, rapping his pen against the papers. "Fine," he said. "Your turn, Major Gran."

The moustached alchemist leaned forward onto his elbow, his cold eyes locking on Mustang. "Which comes first: duty to family, or duty to the State."

This was more like it: these were the questions Roy excelled at. He had always had a philosophical bent, even as a young boy. It had driven Hawkeye-sensei to distraction, Mustang thought smugly. "In a way they're the same," he said. "I mean, I don't have much family, but if I did, they'd be Amestrian citizens. They'd live in Amestris, and they'd work in Amestris, and they'd suffer or flourish with Amestris. So by serving the State I'd be serving the best interests of my family, now wouldn't I?"

No response came, of course, except in the form of another question. "You're a third year cadet? So you have some perception of what it is to serve your country. But I'd like to know how far that goes with you, Mustang. How much would you be willing to sacrifice for Amestris? Your life? Your health? Your limbs? Freedom? Youth? Your personal convictions?"

"I'm a soldier, sir," Roy said levelly. "I hope that means that I would be willing to sacrifice whatever my country asked of me."

Gran nodded once, bluntly. "Why State Alchemist, Cadet?" he asked. "Why not earn your rank the old-fashioned way?"

"I don't care about the rank, sir," Roy said. "I have a gift, and I think that I should use it for the good of the masses. _Alchemists, be thou for the people_. I can do more good as a State Alchemist than I would be able to do as a junior officer. With talent comes a responsibility to do good."

"But couldn't you do good in a little town somewhere?" a soft voice asked. It was the major with the patient eyes. "Or you could affiliate yourself with the University, and teach. You don't need to be on the battlefield to help the people of Amestris. There's more to be done behind the lines than—"

Haman turned on him. "Tim, I've warned you," he growled under his breath.

The major wilted away. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, but though his words were for the general, his eyes were fixed on Roy. There was a warning in them, but Mustang didn't understand it. Anyway, he had a question to answer.

"It's true," he said; "there are many ways to do good, but as a State Alchemist I would have the resources and the authority to make a difference on a large scale. It's more than just serving in battle: maybe one day I could help shape the laws and policies of the State. There are a lot of things that need to be changed, and I could help to do that."

"Change?" the Twisted Jade Alchemist said, chuckling grimly. "We have a revolutionary in the making here! What would you change?"

"Oh, no, I'm not a..." Roy almost mouthed the next word: it was almost profane. "... _republican_. I'm just... well, there aren't enough laws to protect our children, for example. The State orphanages are deplorable places. If we could replace them with a formalized foster system that would take the place of the informal arrangements already in existence in many communities—"

Haman held up his hand for silence. "Enough," he said. "That has nothing to do with your psychological fitness to serve as a State Alchemist. If you want to save the puppies and kittens, you can do so on your own time: don't preach to me about it. State Alchemists are responsible for guaranteeing the safety of the citizens, not for engineering social reform."

"But that's my point!" Roy protested, good sense fleeing in the face of his conviction. "Amestrian children _aren't_ safe if a single act of fate can rob them from their only protection from an outmoded law. Other nations are instituting legislation to guarantee the rights of disenfranchised minors. Creda for instance has—"

"As you were, Cadet!" barked Haman, shooting to his feet and slamming his knuckles down on the table. "You are deviating from the point: this interview is over."

The major turned to look at the angry alchemist. "But General," he said; "I think it's very relevant—"

"I realize that all this appeals to your bleeding heart, Marcoh, but that doesn't make it relevant," the Twisted Jade Alchemist said dismissively. "Get out of here, boy. Send in the next candidate."

Roy's eyes widened in horror. He had somehow blundered... he had ruined his chances of becoming a State Alchemist... he had...

"Cadet," Gran said with the curt military authority in which orders ought to be spoken; "you are dismissed."

Somehow Roy got his feet under his body, and in a feat of self-control he made it to the door. He even managed to tell the waiting woman that it was her turn to go in. But the moment he was around the corner and out of sight of the conference room, he stumbled against the wall, leaning upon a conveniently placed radiator. He buried his face in one hand and succumbed to his consternation.

What had he done?


	31. False Alarm

**Chapter 31: False Alarm**

On the parade grounds of Eastern Academy, the colour guard was being put through its paces. A firm, resounding voice barked orders at the fourth-classmen while the upper year cadets tried not to gawk.

"Cable, left hand _under_ the right, please. Bacall, eyes front. Keep the pace and ONE, two, THREE, four!"

Riza Hawkeye watched critically as her charges attempted the manoeuvre. They were _almost_ able to keep up the more experienced cadets. She sighed. With only two weeks left before the annual competition in Central, Eastern looked like it would be making a poor showing.

One of the third-years let his pennant tilt, and the Second Class captain snapped out a reprimand. That was some solace: the colour guard was collectively sloppy, not just her first-years.

At any other Amestrian academy, Riza would never have had this responsibility. She was nowhere near popular enough to be elected, but Eastern, ever behind the times, still appointed its Captains of the Cadets. Master Sergeant Rosenflower had put her name forward, endorsed in the strongest possible terms. The rest of the faculty had quickly reached a consensus, for Riza had excellent standing among her instructors.

"Norton, pick up your feet!" she commanded. "ONE, two, ONE, two."

It had been a difficult week. The news of Ben Hughes' death had brought with it a certain peace, but there was sorrow, too. And today was the third day of the State Alchemist's exam: far away, Mr. Mustang was vying for the licence for which he – and Riza also – had been working for years. The suspense was terrible, and who could say when Riza would be freed of it? They had never discussed whether he would contact her to make known the result. Surely he would telephone the faculty office, or send her a wire. Surely, _surely_ he would at the very least write to her with the news. Wouldn't he?

To make matters worse, she had started her courses – what her physiology textbook called "menstruation" – and her lower abdomen burned with cramps. The pain was worse than usual, and she was having a hard time ignoring it.

"That's enough!" snapped First Class Cadet Captain Bridgewater. "Colours dismissed."

As the weary cadets filed off to put away their flags, Bridgewater sidled up to Riza, eyes narrowed. "You alright, Hawkeye?" he asked.

Riza straightened her back. "Sir, yes, sir," she said crisply. It would never do to let on to the male cadets – and _especially_ the upper-classmen – that she suffered from a weakness they did not. She was strong enough to control her own body, however much her womb might grumble.

"You looked pretty far away there for a second." Bridgewater was nineteen, and already he had a certain paternalistic streak that people said would make him a colonel, at least.

"I was reflecting on our chances in the competition," Riza said, dissembling only a little. Bridgewater chuckled ruefully.

"They'll be ready," he said. "I know it doesn't look like it right now, but we'll make sure they're ready. Isn't that right?"

"Yes, sir," Riza agreed politely. "Excuse me, sir..."

She took a cautious step away. When Bridgewater did not protest, Riza started back towards the heart of the campus, taking smaller steps that usual in an attempt to avoid jarring her sore abdomen.

She was proud to have been singled out as Cadet Captain, but it was awkward, too. That distinction placed her technically upon the same footing as Bridgewater and the other two, but they were still her seniors in class, and they were all quite a lot older than she. Riza erred on the side of caution and always addressed her cohorts with respect, but that placed a barrier between them and she did not have the same amicable relationship with them that they did with each other. No matter how she tried, she could not _quite_ fit in.

"Hey, Riza!" Lucy Bacall came trotting up, having deposited her flag into the equipment shed. "You okay?"

Riza swallowed hard. Was her weakness apparent to the entire academy? "Fine," she said.

"On your rag, huh," Lucy said feelingly. "Tough break."

Riza flushed a little at the crude euphemism. "I'm quite all right," she said primly.

Bacall laughed, throwing a comradely arm around the younger girl's shoulders. "Sure you are!" she said. " 'Cept you need to lighten up a little. You're always so serious. You know what I think? I think you need to learn how to have fun."

This was probably true. Riza supposed that there had been a time when she had understood the concept of fun. At least, she knew she had had plenty of toys when she was little, and she could only surmise that she had used them. But the later years of her childhood had been bleak and grim, and her teen years were shaping up in much the same way. She had had neither time nor energy for "fun" in Central, and at the Academy, "fun" was not a necessary attribute of a soldier. Still, the others seemed able to enjoy themselves, and to take pleasure in silly and rather asinine things. If she ever wanted to fit in, Riza guessed that she would have to learn how to enjoy these things, too.

"Maybe I do," she admitted softly.

"I'll say you do," Lucy agreed. "You're much too serious."

"I'm a soldier," Riza said, defending herself quietly.

"And who says soldiers can't have fun?" protested the other girl. "We're a hard-swearing, hard-drinking lot."

This wasn't strictly true, at least not of the first-years who were confined to the Academy grounds five nights a week, and who were supervised too thoroughly to get away with much crude language. Still, Riza smiled.

"I'll try to be more ebullient," she said.

Lucy scrunched up her face until it looked like a prune. "Ugh. You can stop using words like that for a start," she said. "Makes you sound like an alchemist or something."

She almost made it sound like an insult. Riza didn't think that this was the right time to mention that the two men who had had the most impact upon her were alchemists...

"We'll start tonight," Lucy said decisively. "You can come out with Steph and me."

"Oh!" Riza protested. "I couldn't. I..."

"Oh, right," said the older girl apologetically. "You're on your rag."

Riza did not dare to ask why that was pertinent.

_discidium_

By the middle of the afternoon, Riza's discomfort had intensified to the point where she could scarcely sit upright. Sitting through the lecture was a torment. The moment class was done, she escaped to the bathroom, where she tried, unsuccessfully, to void her bowels. Gritting her teeth and reminding herself that she had lived through worse pain than this, she made her way to her next class.

There was drilling for the first-years at fourteen hundred hours. By now, she thought anxiously, Mr. Mustang was surely in the midst of his exam. She wondered if her father's alchemy was standing him in good stead. He had worked so hard to decode the secrets imprinted on her skin, and Riza knew that he had practiced diligently. Surely that would be enough. Or would it? She knew so little about alchemy. Was it possible that her father's methods were not of a standard sufficient to secure a State Alchemist's licence? Riza had always assumed that her father had not applied for such a position because he was a republican, rigidly anti-military. Was it possible that he had never applied because he knew he could not succeed?

Even if that were the case, Mr. Mustang had to triumph. He _had _to, because that was only just. His ambitions were so noble, so courageous and right. He wanted to make Amestris strong, to guarantee the rights and the safety of the people. He wanted to change things for the better.

Part of Riza wondered why he had to be a State Alchemist to do that. Couldn't he do good as a common soldier? He didn't need to be strong or powerful to make the world a better place... did he? She didn't believe that only the great could benefit humanity. _She_ was going to be an ordinary soldier, and she intended to do. Of course, she meant to do good in conjunction with Mr. Mustang, so perhaps it was necessary after all for him to be a State Alchemist. Certainly she would never have dared to question him aloud. He was older than she was, and wiser. He knew best.

The waiting was torment.

"Hawkeye! Am I boring you?"

First Lieutenant Datson had his hands on his hips and his head tilted critically to one side. Riza felt a flush of shame tinting her cheekbones. She had not meant to let her mind wander.

"Sir, no, sir," she said crisply, straightening her back through a wave of discomfort.

"Well, then. Can we continue?"

"Certainly, sir." There were a couple of injudicious snickers that the lieutenant quelled with a cold glance.

The drill resumed, but Riza's lower back was aching, and the pain was nauseatingly strong. Abruptly, she broke formation.

"Hawkeye—" Datson snapped in annoyance. Then his expression changed. "Are you..."

"I'm sorry, sir," Riza stuttered, stumbling away from the other cadets. "I'm... I think I'm..."

She doubled over and vomited onto the ground.

_discidium_

"I'm okay, really," Riza protested as Steph and Lucy led her across the yard towards the Faculty building. "I'm just a little sick, that's all."

"Yeah, well, it's not normal to chunder on the parade grounds," Bacall said.

"Just let the medics check you over, and then you can go back to the barracks. You'll get the rest of the afternoon off," Stephanie reasoned.

"B-but I'm _fine_..." Riza protested.

The infirmary was actually two adjoining offices near the academic counselling department. Eastern Academy had no attending physician: any cadets in need of more than basic first aid were sent to the military hospital in the city. Triage was performed by any one of half-a-dozen officers and NCOs who had basic first-aid training.

There was no one in the outer office when the girls arrived. Steph helped Riza onto one of the cots, where the younger girl curled forward over her aching abdomen.

"I'll go and find someone to take a look at you," Lucy promised, backing out into the corridor.

"D'you want to lie down?" Steph asked gently.

Riza bit her lip and shook her head. The pain was getting worse, and she could hardly think now. It was much worse than any cramps she had ever experienced before, and if it weren't for the fact that it was a dull, deep pain and not a burning agony, she would have sworn it hurt worse than the abominable tattoo...

"Let's get off your jacket," suggested Stephanie.

Riza shook her head, but the older girl was already working one of her arms out of its blue wool sleeve. Riza was unable to resist or to protest: it was taking all of her self-control to keep from sobbing in anguish. She felt like she was going to explode: she could feel the pressure in her abdomen, cramping and spasming, and...

She exhaled enormously as a wave of relief rippled through her trunk. The pain was ebbing away as swiftly as if she had been given a shot of morphia.

"What's wrong?" Steph asked anxiously.

"Nothing," Riza breathed. "I'm feeling much better now." She uncurled, straightening up and smoothing the front of her shirt. "I'll be all right in a minute. I just... I feel a little dizzy, that's all. Maybe I _should_ lie down."

Steph nodded, and plumped the pillow as Riza eased herself backwards. She smiled a little and brushed a tendril of blonde hair off of Riza's forehead. "Ooh, you're a little warm," she observed.

"It's probably just a flu bug," Riza said. Now that the pain had trickled away to a ghostly soreness, she was beginning to feel sleepy. "And I'm... you know..."

Steph chuckled empathetically. "That time of the month? Yeah, I kind of guessed," she said.

The clock above the door showed that twenty minutes passed before Lucy came back, but to Riza the time was a nebulous and indistinct thing. She felt cold now that the pain was gone, and she was so tired... Once she thought she drifted off, but Stephanie did not seem surprised when she murmured her thanks for the older girl's assistance, so she probably hadn't. At last, however, Bacall came around the corner with Captain Jenkins who taught Command Deportment and Advanced Tactics.

The captain stopped at the door, and Riza lolled her head to look at him. Ordinarily she would have scrambled to her feet to salute, but a peaceful lassez-faire was settling over her, and military protocol suddenly didn't seem important. She smiled dumbly.

"She doesn't look like she's in terrible pain," Jenkins said, eyeing Bacall suspiciously. "Are you girls yanking my chain?"

"No, sir!" Bacall cried, and for the first time since Riza had met her, the self-assured cadet sounded defensive and alarmed. "She was, just a few minutes ago. She could hardly walk."

"It's true, sir," Isaac said earnestly.

"Is it, Hawkley?" Jenkins asked. He didn't teach first year, adn he didn't know Riza the way her instructors did.

"Yes," Riza answered vaguely. "But it went away. I'm just tired."

"Hmph," Jenkins said, coming forward and giving her a cursory once-over with cold, fishy eyes. "Probably women's pains. You're in your courses, aren't you?"

Riza nodded.

"But sir, that doesn't explain why she puked," Bacall said.

"Stomach bug," said the officer dismissively. He let the back of his hand flop onto Riza's forehead. "She hasn't got a fever."

"But she did," Steph protested in bewilderment. "Not twenty minutes ago she was burning up, sir. Maybe she should see a doctor."

"I don't really think that's necessary," Jenkins said. "Just go to bed, take tomorrow off to recuperate, and keep a bucket on hand in case you get the urge to vomit again. Wouldn't you agree, Hawkley?"

Riza nodded, but she was feeling very muzzy, and she wasn't at all sure that she was thinking clearly. Still, a sort of foggy peace had descended over her. The pain was fading, along with the memory of whatever it was she had been fretting over all day. Some kind of test? It seemed very silly now...

"Come on, up you get," Jenkins said, taking hold of Riza's arm and hauling her to her feet. "And I'll thank the three of you to refrain from coming to me with any more false alarms. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," both Bacall and Isaac chorused, staring down at their boots.

"And you, Hawkins?"

"Uh-huh," Riza said, bobbing her head. The motion sent a chilling dizziness through her. In a moment of disorientation, she took two halting steps towards the door.

And then there was nothing.

_discidium_

The walls were tiled: appalling, green ceramic tiles held together by yellowing grout. Riza was not at all sure where she was or what she was doing here, but she hated those walls. The next thing she became aware of was a smell. It was a sharp, antiseptic scent that stung in her eyes and made her wrinkle her nose in distasted. Then there was a sound as someone set aside a sheaf of rustling papers and leaned forward.

"Hawkeye? You awake?"

Riza turned towards the voice, and her eyes – which had had no trouble at all taking in the more distant contours of the ugly, _ugly_ walls – struggled to focus on the face hovering two feet from her own. It was Master Sergeant Rosenflower, looking pale and overtired. Riza tried to speak, but all that came out was an uncertain croaking noise.

"Take it easy," the old soldier advised, groping around a scratchy knitted blanket to find Riza's hand. "You gave us all a scare, Cadet."

Riza licked her lips with a puffy, dry tongue. "Wha..." she managed in an undignified exhalation.

"You're at the military hospital. In the recovery ward. I don't think I'm very welcome here, but I pulled rank." He grimaced sardonically, and Riza understood: as an NCO, he had very little rank to pull.

"Why..." Riza whispered hoarsely. Her voice was not functioning as it should. She wondered if this was what it felt like to be hung over. It wasn't a pleasant feeling at all.

"Your appendix burst. Why didn't you report it earlier? The doctor said you must've been in pain for sixteen hours at least."

He was angry at her. Riza closed her eyes, longing to slip back into the anaesthetic oblivion. "I thought – I thought – I'm sorry, sir."

"Sorry?" Rosenflower blustered. "You could have been killed! You _would_ have been killed if those two friends of yours didn't have more sense than Jenkins."

Riza realized abruptly that her barracks commander wasn't angry at _her_, but at the captain who had dismissed her symptoms.

"I thought it was just cramps," she protested in a tiny voice.

The Master Sergeant's expression softened. "That's the trouble with women in uniform," he said sourly. "You all think you've got to be tough as nails and twice as invincible as the men."

"We do," Riza croaked.

"Oh, do you? And who told you that?"

"You did... sir..."

Rosenflower chuckled. "So I did. Well, you've certainly done it, too. Surgeon said that the pain from an appendix right before it bursts is as bad as a heart attack."

"But I'm okay?"

He nodded. "They didn't even have to take any of your bowel. You'll need to stay here for a few days, and you'll be off your feet for three weeks at least, but I'll enlist a few of your classmates to keep you abreast of your coursework. Knowing you, you won't let this setback keep you from advancing with your class."

Three weeks... "But sir," Riza protested. "The colours are due to compete in Central..."

"Without you," Rosenflower said firmly. "You've had a serious operation: marching is out of the question. So is travelling," he said sternly, before she could ask whether she would at least be allowed to accompany the team, even just to watch.

Riza's heart sank. She had been desperate to go to Central: competition aside, she wanted to visit Mrs. Oakley. And, of course, Mr. Mustang was in Central.

"Don't be so glum," Rosenflower said. "You're lucky to be alive, and you can always compete next year."

Riza nodded, but she was starting to feel fatigue washing over her – aided, no doubt, by the morphine dripping into her vein from a glass bottle hanging over the bed. She looked up at it, blinking very slowly.

"You get some sleep," Rosenflower said. "I've got to get back to campus: I've got a barracks full of rowdy women who are going to want to know what's happened to their sister-in-arms." He got to his feet and looked down at her from some incomprehensible distance. He patted her arm. "You're a brave lady, ma'am," he said bracingly. Then he was gone.

Riza tried to fight the fatigue, but she couldn't. And, she realized, she didn't really want to. But just as she slipped irrevocably towards slumber she realized what she had been worrying about.

Mr. Mustang.

The State Alchemist exam...


	32. A Brief Note: Dear Friends

August 28, 2009

A Brief Note: Dear Friends,

As you know, Real Life has long distracted me from working on this story. It is with great regret that I must inform you that something happened about six weeks ago that has made it highly unlikely that I shall ever continue "Shall Never See So Much". It seems that old wounds have healed at last, and an old friend has returned to me out of the shadows, and I no longer need to distract myself with such diversions. I am home again.

While this is good news for me, it is sad for the characters with whom I have so delighted in playing. I shall miss Roy and Riza, and it saddens me that I never did make it to Ishbal. But it is unfair of me to continue to keep this story active when it is so improbable that I shall ever pick it up again.

Thank you all for your dedicated readership, and your devoted reviews. I am bitterly sorry that I could not continue. I will not say, as Lear did, "Never, never, never, never, never, never, never", but I must honestly tell you "not now". Perhaps some day I will feel compelled to go on, but for the moment I must place this story, like the television programs we treasured in childhood, on "Permanent Hiatus".

Again let me express my gratitude to all those who made posting here a wonderful experience. I can only hope that I have not left you estranged and embittered.

Many thanks and fond farewell,

Stoplight Delight

_The weight of this sad time we must obey:  
Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.  
The oldest hath borne most: we that are young  
Shall never see so much, nor live so long.  
-_-Wm. Shakespeare, King Lear


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